Fractured Trust
by AustralianRanger012
Summary: Clint Barton may have stopped running, but his problems are far from over. As his SHIELD training continues under Agent Coulson, Clint struggles to cope with the guilt of his past deeds. Phil just wishes his agent would trust him so that he could help carry the burden. Meanwhile, all is not well at SHIELD.*CSC Universe*
1. I can't feel my senses

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/N**

 **Hallo everyone, I'm finally back with the long awaited sequel to Secrets and Spies!**

 **This sequel gave me more grief than the last three stories did combined. It went from two stories to one story and back again a few times, before I decided I didn't like what I'd written and chucked 40k of words into my reject folder and started again. Fortunately, things went much better the second time around. And now you can all enjoy the result!**

 **Also, for those of you who haven't read The Classified Files one-shot, I've made a few minor changes to earlier stories. Nothing major, and they are covered in the A/N of that story. I would recommend going to check it out, if you haven't already read it. Freeranger, BrieChesse16 and Armand, thankyou** **for reviewing that story.** **Reviews are always exciting.**

 **The chapter titles this time around are lyrics from a song that could very well be written for Clint. It _perfectly_ describes everything about him at this point in time in my universe, and I did actually write the theme of the story to echo the song. I'll give you a few chapters to guess what it is before I reveal it.**

 **Before we go any further, I want to give a shout out to my sister, Freeranger, without whom this story would not have been written! She is my 'consultant', ideas sounding board, master critic, first proof-reader, and even co-author at times. No joke, she knows my universe better than I do, and I am delighted to have her on board!**

 **Thanks also goes to jaguarspot, who beta-ed this for me and as usual did a fantastic job. Honestly, this story would not be what it is without the input of those two.**

 **I will be updating every three-to-four days, depending on how busy I am at University. There are ten chapters in total. This story will also be cross-posted on AO3.**

 **I hope that you enjoy!**

* * *

Trust is very hard if you don't know what you're trusting. _Marianne Williamson_

* * *

 **Chapter 1: I can't feel my senses**

 _End of November._

Phil looked at Fury with concern.

"Barton wasn't one of the ones who was hurt, was he?"

Phil was more relieved than he'd care to admit when his boss shook his head.

"No. Barton was understandably shaken up, but uninjured. The main dorm building at the Academy, however, is another matter entirely."

"Over half the building is too burnt to do anything with; while the other half needs some serious repairs so this sort of thing won't happen again. It's looking like we'll have to close the dorms down for a few months so the entire thing can be replaced. Those buildings are getting too old and have far too much flammable material used in their construction. We didn't realise just how bad it was."

Phil frowned.

"What's going to happen to the students? It's practically December, Nick. Christmas isn't that far away when they would get holidays anyway. What is to be done with them?"

Nick suspected that he knew the real reason Phil had asked that question.

"That is currently being decided. The fire only happened last night, so the ball hadn't even started rolling yet with the higher-ups. However, I have made my decision about what I am doing with Barton."

Phil tried not to look too keen and failed miserably.

"Yes?"

"I am bringing him back to base. And putting him under your supervision."

Phil blinked.

"Again? It seems like he only just left."

"Again. And this time it is long-term. I don't know how long it will be before the Academy is functional again, and he hasn't got anywhere else to go."

That was very true. As the archer had been working as a hit-man before Phil had found him and offered him a job, he didn't have anything to go back to. SHIELD was all he had right now if he wanted to stay legit and out of prison.

Fury kept talking.

"However, I don't see why Barton should have to stop his training just because he is back at base. For that reason, I will get you copies of the training manuals they use. That way, you can continue to train him on SHIELD protocols."

"If all goes well, we might not even have to send him back to the Academy. If you can teach him everything he needs to know to be a SHIELD agent on base, then sending him back might turn out to be a waste of time."

Phil groaned.

"Seriously Nick? I am still an invalid, technically."

If Phil was hoping that would sway Fury, he was disappointed. Fury was entirely unsympathetic.

"I didn't say you had to do anything physically taxing, like sparring with him, just yet. He can join the training groups on base for that. Like he did during his first month here. At least until you are totally fit again, then you can start his advanced training."

"As for the rest of his physical education... I'm sure that Wilkinson will be delighted to have him back on the shooting range. Due to the nature of the work that we want him to do for us, Barton was always going to need more training after he graduated. He isn't just going to be another run-of-the-mill agent; he is going to be a specialist and long-distance operative. The fire has pushed up our schedule somewhat, but I'm sure that you will make it work. You studied well enough together that he was able to easily achieve his GED in five weeks, which is a very good effort."

Phil sighed as he rubbed his forehead.

"That was different."

"How?"

Phil didn't answer that question. After a moment Fury nodded, looking smug.

"My point exactly."

Phil's shoulders slumped in defeat as he resigned himself to the facts.

"When will he arrive? Will he be put back in the same room that he had before? What do the higher-ups think of this?"

"He will arrive as soon as it can be arranged and yes, he will be back where he was before. I'll keep you informed as things progress."

* * *

 _Two days later._

Phil was waiting in the hangar area of the SHIELD base for the jet that Barton would be on to arrive. The last couple of days had been a whirlwind of politics and meetings that Phil had, for the most part, happily been able to avoid.

Fury hadn't been so lucky, but that was the price to pay for being the Director of SHIELD. He'd been in and out of meetings constantly for the last two days; trying to sort out all the problems the fire at the Academy had generated.

The ultimate outcome was that Phil was officially Barton's handler for the foreseeable future. He was also responsible for training him to be an agent.

Phil had mixed feelings about that.

On the one hand, he'd been the one to offer the kid a second chance with SHIELD in the first place, and intended to see it through. But, on the other hand, the last time he'd been a personal handler hadn't ended well. Phil thought of Claire Bergeron and his throat tightened for a second. He knew that her death wasn't his fault. She would have done what she had to do to complete the mission, regardless of whether he was there or not. Even though Phil knew that nothing short of stopping her going on that mission to begin with would have saved her life, he still felt that there had to have been something he could have done to prevent her death.

No use dwelling on the past now Phil, you have to concentrate on the present, which is training Barton to be an agent and getting him to trust you to have his back. Phil internally groaned at that thought. This was not going to be an easy assignment. But Phil knew he was up to the challenge, and he didn't intend to fail. Barton had been let down by far too many people in his short life already. The kid deserved more than what he'd gotten so far, and Phil didn't intend for his name to be put on the list of people who'd failed Barton.

Just then, the jet he'd been waiting for appeared on the horizon, heading towards the base. Phil waited until it had landed and the ramp lowered before he walked towards it. A few agents started to trickle out, so Phil stood nearby and waited for Barton to appear.

The archer was the last one to get off.

He was wearing dark sunglasses, SHIELD-issued clothes, and was carrying his bow case along with a SHIELD-issued rucksack. Phil frowned at all the SHIELD-issued things, and made up his mind to see about getting the young man some things that were _not_ SHIELD-issued.

No one should be at the tender mercies of SHIELD-issued things for too long.

That was cruelty to agents. Besides, seeing that Phil was now officially Barton's handler, it was up to him to ensure that the archer had everything he needed.

Barton looked around with an uncertain expression on his face after he disembarked the jet. Phil stepped out of the shadows of the building he'd been (unintentionally, of course) standing in.

"Barton."

The archer looked around for a moment before he saw Phil.

"Coulson."

Phil could feel that intense gaze of Barton's; even through the dark glasses the kid was wearing. Phil smiled, trying to make his expression warm and welcoming as Barton stood there and watched him. Phil didn't know what the archer had been told about this arrangement, and so decided to plunge right in.

"I presume that you've been told why you've been transferred back here and what you will be doing?"

The kid nodded slowly.

"Yes. I'm going to continue my training under a _handler_ here at base while the Academy is being repaired."

The expression on the kids face said louder than words ever would that he didn't like the idea of having a handler. Phil ignored it.

"Yes, that is correct. I have actually been appointed to be your personal handler, so you'll be training under my supervision."

"What makes you think that I can be trained? I'm not a dog."

The sarcasm was unexpected enough that for a moment it threw Phil off his game. Phil had been prepared for Barton to be moodily silent or uncooperative upon hearing about this arrangement.

He had not been prepared for sarcasm and snark.

This was sounding more like the Barton whom he'd cornered and tased in Paris than the one he'd spent five weeks working with to achieve his GED certificate.

"I never thought that you were. A dog generally does what it is told to do if you give them a treat at the end. Your history of insubordination and disobeying orders is almost legendary."

The archer actually looked proud at that, as if having legendary insubordination was something to be proud off. In his books it might very well be.

"Perhaps, if they'd given me a treat at the end, I might have listened to them."

"I somehow doubt that."

Phil was fairly sure that if Barton thought something wasn't worth listening to, then no amount of treats would change his mind on the matter. Barton just stood there, smirking at him. Phil suspected Barton knew what he was thinking, but he ignored the smirk to focus on the job at hand.

"Come on, we'll drop your things off in your room. Then I'll fill you in on what is going to happen over lunch. Is that all you've got?"

Barton nodded but otherwise didn't say a word. He just stood there looking at Coulson with that sharp, assessing gaze of his.

Phil didn't let it affect him.

"Great. Let's get going then."

Barton silently fell into step behind him as they left the hangar area. Not for the first time, Phil seriously wondered what he'd let himself in for by agreeing to do this.

* * *

"So, now that you're officially my _handler_ ," the way Clint said the word made it sound like a handler was something particularly nasty (Coulson, predictably, ignored it) "what does that mean?"

Clint studied his new _handler_ with his head to one side and a challenge in his eyes. His _handler_ ignored it, typical. In spite of his best efforts during the first month he was here, he hadn't been able to break the stoic agent who had initially recruited him. Now that said agent was his _handler_ , Clint was going to do everything in his power to try and break that unflappable calm exterior that Coulson projected to the world.

Starting now.

"Short version, I am officially responsible for you."

"Lucky you."

"I know. I am lucky to have someone with the potential that you show under my supervision."

Clint blinked. He had not been expecting that answer.

His new _handler_ (Clint wasn't going to stop thinking about him like that any time soon) continued eating like nothing was wrong. Clint picked at his own food, but he suddenly wasn't hungry. It was only a few moments later that Coulson spoke again.

"But basically, being your handler means that I will be there on missions when you start taking them, and you'll follow my lead. Don't you roll your eyes like that Barton; I know you're not good at following orders. Until you learn more you'll follow mine however, as I do know what I'm doing."

"You've got potential Barton, and I don't want you to end up dead ahead of time. That would be a waste."

Clint didn't have anything to say to that. He knew that the Agent had to have seen something worthwhile in him to offer him a job in the first place, but still.

Clint wasn't used to people giving him compliments of any sort, and he didn't have a clue how to respond. Physical blows, verbal abuse and shouting he could take; compliments were a whole new ball game. So he just shrugged at the Agent's words as he took a bite of his food. He wasn't really hungry, but if his mouth was full than he wouldn't have to talk.

After a long moment of silence, the older agent started talking again.

"I will also be taking responsibility for your education on SHIELD protocols and theory training. Basically, everything that you need to know in order to be a SHIELD agent, I will be teaching you. The heads of SHIELD have decided that you're my responsibility for the foreseeable future and so, like it or not, I will be training you."

"What about physical training?"

"You'll join in the classes held here on base every morning like you did before. The classes are compulsory for you as you are still a trainee. I am currently not cleared for hard physical exercise, but as soon as I am I will also take on your advanced combat training. However, that won't be until after the New Year."

"As for your shooting; Wilkinson is delighted that he is going to have you back on the range. I believe that he's making plans to have the range extended, and would probably appreciate input on how to make it better."

"By the way, how did you like the Academy?"

Clint shrugged and averted his eyes as he hunched his shoulders slightly.

"It was okay I guess."

Phil frowned.

"What do you mean by that? Okay as in 'good' or okay as in 'okay-ish'?"

"They wouldn't let me use my bow."

Phil blinked; momentarily a taken back.

"Why not? Every agent has the right to decide on and use whatever weapon they feel comfortable with, so long as it meets SHIELD's standards."

"Yeh, well somebody forgot to give them the memo. They took it away from me and only let me have it under strict supervision. 'Weapons aren't allowed outside of training' I was told by one of them. 'Your weapon of choice is unusual so we want to watch you carefully' another said. It's all a load of crap. I've been doing archery since I was thirteen so seriously, what is their problem?"

Phil filed _that_ little nugget of information about Barton's early life away for further analyses later. Right now, he was more focussed on the other things that Barton had said.

"They wouldn't let you use your bow?"

"Only occasionally under strict supervision. 'We want to make sure you know what you're doing'." Barton air quoted before he smirked darkly. "They are lucky I left when I did. I don't know how much more of their shit I could take before I started shooting those idiotic assholes in their idiotic asses."

Phil's response was automatic.

"You shouldn't call them names. The trainers are all highly qualified agents and regarded as experts in their chosen fields. SHIELD only hires the best after all."

"I didn't say that they weren't experts. I said that they are assholes. There's a difference."

Phil decided his best avenue was to ignore that comment completely. He was starting to get the sinking feeling that Fury was correct, and Barton would _not_ be going back to the Academy. It seemed likely that the trainee agent would do better if he finished his training here, on base.

Which meant that Phil was responsible for practically everything to do with the archer indefinitely.

Phil couldn't find it in him to feel despair at that, however. Rather, he felt determination stirring. He had been given a golden opportunity here to help change this young man's life and give him a future worth living for. That wasn't something that happened every day.

And Phil intended to make the most of that opportunity. Words like 'quitting' and 'giving up' weren't in his genetics.

* * *

When Clint had received the orders to report in to Fury, the first thing he did was go over what he'd done since coming to base. The answer was nothing much. He hadn't had time to do anything as he'd only arrived back yesterday.

Realistically, he knew Fury probably wanted an update on how things had gone at the Academy. The Director probably wanted to see if he'd found out anything. Well, the answer to that was a big fat no. He might have been at the Academy for almost five weeks, but nothing had happened that seemed remotely suspicious to him during that time.

Fury only nodded when Clint told him that. He did not look surprised.

"Okay, that isn't unexpected. I knew that it was a long shot asking you to dig around for information in the first place. On a different note, how did you like it there?"

Clint scowled as he stood ramrod straight in front of Fury's desk in a parody of parade rest. Fury had glared at him briefly at first, and then proceeded to ignore it completely. Clint's reluctant respect for the Director grew.

But that wasn't enough to stop him from pushing the boundaries in a way that he wouldn't have dared before.

His time at the Academy had frustrated him to such a degree that the only thing that had made it bearable was riling up his superiors. And now that he'd started this behaviour, Clint had no intentions of stopping.

It was too much fun, and gave Clint a feeling of control in a situation where it was lacking.

"The instructors are assholes."

Fury raised an eyebrow.

"What makes you say that?"

"They only let me have my bow _under supervision to make sure that I knew what I was doing_." Barton made air quotes. "Seriously, I've been shooting for years. I know my way around a bow. Assholes."

Fury nodded seriously.

"I should hope that you do. After all, it was largely due to your unique skill set with the bow that we recruited you."

Clint smirked.

"I thought that you recruited me because I can hit a target from a kilometre and a half away perfectly every time."

"That was certainly part of it. However, I was also impressed by the fact that people regard bows as outdated weapons, and yet you use one more effectively than most people use conventional firearms. It is impressive, and different. I like different."

Clint just shrugged, already bored of the conversation.

"Whatever. Are we finished here? _Sir_."

Fury glared at him, Clint just glared right back as he waited. His time at the Academy had taught him one useful thing, how to most effectively annoy higher level SHIELD agents.

It actually wasn't that hard.

Straight up insubordination generally wasn't quite enough, but couple it with disrespect (or a parody of respect; which was even better) and they'd glare daggers at you. It had worked every time.

He should have known that Fury wouldn't be affected. The staring match didn't last long. Clint was starting to get uncomfortable and had to fight not to shuffle his feet several times before Fury finally spoke. His tone made it clear that they were finished when he said so.

"That is all. You are dismissed Barton."

Not willing to push his luck any further with Fury, Clint left without saying another word. However, he did give a half-hearted salute as he went out the door. Fury appeared to ignore it and Clint left.

* * *

Fury sighed only after the archer had left his office and he was once again alone. Barton's insubordination and disregard for authority was worse than it had been before the Academy. Fury was starting to seriously wonder if he'd made a mistake sending the future specialist there. He wasn't often wrong, but Fury feared that this time he might have been.

He'd really thought that it was the right thing to do at the time. SHIELD was not properly equipped to deal with training agents on the job, so to speak. There was no one available to act as a handler and supervise Barton's training for however many months it took.

It would require extra resources, time and effort to train Barton completely from scratch. Barton would have more opportunities for learning by going to the Academy as well. However, that wasn't the main reason that Fury had made the choice to send him there. No, he had bigger things to worry about, and it wasn't just because of their traitor issue.

The council were, after all, very controlling with what they considered to be 'a waste of resources'. Fury had to tread carefully where they were concerned if he wanted to keep his position in SHIELD. Unfortunately, their word was generally seen as law seeing that they (technically) controlled what happened at SHIELD.

The Academy fire didn't change that; they still weren't amendable to training Barton by alternative means. However, Coulson was currently not cleared for missions, meaning that he did not having much to do besides paperwork. That being the case, Fury hadn't seen why he shouldn't undertake being Barton's handler.

At least temporarily, until the Academy was habitable again.

After a couple of sessions of masterful manipulation on Fury's part, the WSC had eventually agreed that Barton's training could continue on base under Coulson's supervision. They'd even agreed that Phil could have access to the extra resources he would need to train the specialist. It made sense, given the circumstances, to do things this way. In spite of clearly still not liking the idea, the Council had signed off on it.

Fury just hoped that it would all work out.

* * *

 _One week later._

Phil had to fight back a groan as he gave his young charge a deadpan look. He'd worn that look a lot over the past week.

"No Barton, you can't do that. If you said and did that then you would likely start an international incident, something that we go out of our way to _avoid_."

"If you get into trouble when you are undercover, and authorities get involved, you don't use them for target practice. You follow the protocols that are in place for those kinds of situations. The protocols that I am trying to teach you and that you are determined not to learn."

Clint was unbothered.

"Protocol is boring. You brought me in to shoot things right? Why do I have to learn all this stuff if that's the case?"

"Because not everything you do with SHIELD will involve shooting. You are an operative and agent; therefore, we need to educate you in a variety of skills. You aren't just a sniper anymore Barton, you will be doing much more than just shooting things for SHIELD. But you do have to follow protocol."

The kid shrugged as he slouched back in his chair.

"Whatever. It doesn't change the fact that protocol is still boring."

"But a necessary part of your mission education nonetheless."

Barton sighed dramatically.

"Fine. Where were we?"

"We are up to scenario three, Barton, as you would know if you had been paying attention and not arguing with me. Focus Barton. You are undercover to assassinate a higher ranking government official, who is secretly selling secrets to Hydra. The country's government has invited us in, but doesn't want to be implicated in any way in his death. Something happens, the authorities get involved, and you are trapped with nowhere to go. You know that you need to complete your job, but can't very well tell anyone who you really are or what your real job is. If you are caught doing the deed you will be disavowed by SHIELD. What do you do?"

Barton sighed dramatically as he answered in a bored voice.

"Lay low, and look for a chance to complete my mission without getting caught. If I am caught I can't implicate SHIELD in any way blah, blah, blah. Whatever. What if my target escapes or the police detain me for whatever reason?"

"If you lose your target, get in touch with your handler then go to your evacuation point. If the authorities become too deeply involved, then you proceed to Section C of the training manual. 'Dealing with Official Imprisonment or Detainment in Foreign Countries'."

"You've really got protocols for dealing with everything, don't you?"

"We do have plenty of experience, and generally try to be prepared for whatever happens."

"No shit."

Phil felt a headache forming behind his eyes, and had to resist the urge to rub his forehead. They were in one of the empty briefing rooms at SHIELD HQ going over mission protocol. They'd been there for about an hour now, and had only gotten through two of the protocols. Barton, in spite of having the answer booklet in front of him, had argued about why these things had to be done in a certain way for every single word Phil had read.

Phil knew that the kid was testing him by his behaviour, like he had been for the past week. He also knew that this was yet another test he had to pass if things with Barton were to have a remote chance of work out in the long run. Phil already knew that the kid didn't respect authority of any description. Phil couldn't really blame him for that; from what Phil knew of the archer's history he'd never been given a good reason to.

Hell, he didn't even fully respect Fury. That was really saying something about his attitude to authority figures.

The Director of SHIELD practically _radiated_ an expectation to be respected, or else. Barton tended to ignore that completely and was always pushing the boundaries. However, the kid was smart and he didn't push them quite far enough to be a big problem. If he still did what he was told to do on missions, and followed correct protocols, SHIELD could work around his attitude and sass.

The problem was the protocols that he would have to follow were the same ones that he was currently arguing _against_ following.

Phil didn't intend to let Barton's attitude worry him however, and so continued reading out loud from the handbook. It _was_ actually interesting, he thought. SHIELD had some interesting procedures that hadn't been there last time he'd read through it.

It was a huge shame that Barton didn't feel the same way about rules as Phil did.

Another half hour, and less than one more scenario discussed later, Phil quit that section of the book. He'd had enough, and didn't feel like they were getting anywhere by this method. Phil decided that it was time for a break.

"Let's take a short break. Go and get something to eat and drink, but be back here in twenty minutes. When you come back we will be going to Political History."

Phil knew from experience (and the look on Barton's face) that the kid was planning his escape upon hearing that. Not one to be deterred, Phil played his trump card.

"If you aren't back within that time frame, I will revoke your privilege to extra range time with your bow in the afternoons. It wasn't easy to get you that privilege to begin with, and caused a lot of paperwork. If you can't take your lessons with me seriously, then why should I bother with doing things like that for you?"

Barton's shoulders tensed minutely at Phil's words, and he didn't reply.

Phil sighed.

"Go and have a break, Barton. If all goes well when you come back, I might even let you off early today. We'll have to see about that one."

Phil waited until Barton had left the room before he went back to his office for some aspirin. After he'd taken it, Phil sunk gratefully into his own office chair and allowed himself a moment to just relax. He'd had precious little time to relax since taking responsibility for Barton.

As he waited for the painkillers to kick in, Phil thought back over the events of the past week. Needless to say, as Clint Barton was involved there was a lot to think about.

It had certainly been a trying week.

When he'd greeted Barton coming off the jet and told the archer that he was to be his handler, Phil wasn't sure what he'd expected. Moody silence probably, that had seemed to be the archer's favourite response to anything that was said to him before he'd left base the first time.

'Had' been the key word here.

Phil had not expected to be greeted with sarcasm. His previous experience with Barton had not prepared him for this at all. It soon became clear that Barton's time at the Academy had brought him out of his shell, and not in a good way. Phil wondered what the hell they had done to cause the archer to start behaving the way he had been this past week. Phil was beginning to sympathise with many of the people who had written all those complaints in Barton's army file regarding his attitude issues.

Because Barton was inclined to be an impossible pain in the ass.

And that was putting it nicely.

However, Phil soldiered on because he had noticed one thing about Barton's insubordination that hadn't been mentioned in any file. And that thing was big.

For all his back talking, sarcasm, and disdain for authority; Barton didn't outright disobey direct orders very often. If Phil told him to do something he would complain no end and push you to the end of your patience. But, eventually, he would generally do what he had originally been told to do.

Sure he was annoying, but the archer had so much potential that Phil had decided that he could handle the backtalk and sarcasm. So long as Barton generally did what he was told to do, and did it well, Phil would let his behaviour slide for now. They didn't know each other well enough yet, nor have enough trust in place, for Phil to try and adjust that attitude. Maybe one day Barton would stop making Phil's life a living hell, but Phil knew there was a lot of work ahead of him to get that far.

His headache had mercifully ceased to a dull ache by this point. Phil opened his eyes and glanced at his watch only to curse.

He had been gone for almost twenty-three minutes.

Barton would probably be back in the briefing room waiting for him, and Phil just knew he would make quips about Phil not sticking to his own time limit. Oh well, if the archer behaved himself long enough for them to get through the next chapter of the training booklet, Phil was going to let him off early.

After all, Phil didn't want to constantly demand attention and work from Barton without offering something in return. Supernanny had been very firm on the powers of positive reinforcement.

Phil hadn't told anyone, but he's started watching Supernanny while he'd been recovering from the accident. He hadn't been able to sleep much at night, and it was the only thing on television that he found remotely interesting. It was a tossup between Supernanny and re-runs of bad soaps or even worse movies. Phil had decided Supernanny was the lesser of those evils. As it stood, he was actually enjoying it, and was getting ideas on how to handle Clint from it.

Wrangling an assassin wasn't actually that different from wrangling a child, Phil had thought after watching a few episodes. Both required lots of time and effort. The main difference, Phil had felt, was that Barton required _more_ time and effort than a child ever would.

* * *

 **End of Chapter 1.**

* * *

 **And so it begins. And so begins Phil's life-long obsession with Supernanny. Also, I know that the show didn't start until about five years after this story (according to Wikipedia), but in this universe it was totally around in late 1998. The joys of artistic licence.**

 **Don't forget to let me know if you are enjoying this. If enough people want more, it will help me feel motivated to post more often than what I'm planning to. I will reply to all who are signed in to comment.**


	2. I just feel the cold

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **Hi all, I'm back with chapter 2 of Fractured Trust. A big shout out to the reviewers of chapter 1; B** **rieCheese16, Freeranger, and Guest thankyou so much! Reviews let me know that people are reading this story and want more, which helps me stay motivated to not go too long between posts, which is extremely easy to do with my busy life schedule. Also, to all those who followed and even favourited this story or me as an author, thankyou. It means a lot to know that people obviously want more.**

 **This chapter was beta-ed by jaguarspot as usual, and Freeranger helped me with ideas for the whole thing, as usual. I take full responsibility for any mistakes that remain.**

 **Also, after this chapter we skip ahead in time to January 1999. The reason for that is that I've written a one-shot that takes place at Christmas 1998, but it just didn't fit into the flow of the story, so I didn't include it. It will be posted separately, probably as soon as this story is completed.**

 **Enjoy, and I'll see you again in a few days time!**

* * *

Trust is built with consistency. _Lincoln Chafee_

* * *

 **Chapter 2: I just feel the cold**

 _Early December 1998, Two weeks after coming back to base._

Clint exhaled as he released his last arrow. He knew before he released the tension that the arrow would hit the target dead centre. The archery target he was using currently bore a strong resembled to a porcupine, and Clint just stood there for a moment admiring his work.

Having gotten bored of bullseyes weeks ago, Clint had resorted to other ways of practicing his aim. Today, he'd decided to put a perfectly spaced ring of arrows on all the different coloured rings of the target board. The end result was very impressive. Clint was still admiring it when he heard a low chuckle.

"Is that board salvageable, or should I place another order for a new one?"

Clint shrugged as he turned to face a grinning Wilkinson, who had been leaning against the back wall watching him this whole time.

"It's not a write off just yet. These are really good archery target boards. It won't need to be replaced until it's so torn up that I can't physically fit any more arrows onto it."

Wilkinson didn't look surprised.

"That, I don't doubt. How is the bow going?"

Clint nodded.

"It's okay. When will the new one be ready?"

Wilkinson sighed.

"R & D told me within two weeks, but who knows. Now that they know about the modifications you want, they are entirely too thrilled about the job. I just hope that it is actually functional when it eventually arrives."

"If it isn't then we send it back. You said that we can do that right?"

Wilkinson nodded as he wandered down to watch Clint pull his arrows out of the target.

"Yes, if you don't like anything about it then we give it back to them and they fix the problem. Hopefully. Either that, or their modifications create a whole set of new ones. Unfortunately, that is a very possible outcome."

Clint smirked. Wilkinson had told him several stories of R & D's past creations that hadn't behaved in the way they were supposed to. He'd assured Clint that if the new bow didn't work, or wasn't up to scratch, then they'd send it back and make sure that it was fixed.

Clint knew how lucky he was to have Wilkinson on his side. He hadn't liked any of the weapon masters at the Academy, and their scornful attitude towards him had put his back up. Clint hadn't tolerated that very well at all, and was fairly sure that the feeling of dislike had been mutual. Wilkinson, however, was completely different to any of them, and had been from the beginning.

He'd accepted Clint and his odd preferences for weaponry from day one. Wilkinson had also accepted the fact that Clint was already an experienced archer and expert marksman. He had worked on helping the archer improve in whatever way he could, rather than trying to control what Clint did.

Clint appreciated that, and enjoyed spending time with Wilkinson as a result.

Clint also wasn't afraid to ask the older man for help or advice on weapons if he needed it. Wilkinson had never belittled him about anything he didn't know. The range master had simply patiently explained whatever Clint was having trouble with until Clint understood it.

The older agent loved weapons even more than Clint did (he wasn't a gun kind of person. Sure, he could use them, but that didn't mean he necessarily enjoyed it) and was a fountain of knowledge on the subject. In spite of that, he didn't brag about his knowledge, but was more than willing to share it. All you had to do was ask him nicely, and be prepared to listen to what he had to say.

Yes, Clint liked Agent Wilkinson. He didn't trust him, hell he didn't trust _anyone_ and hadn't trusted anyone in years, not since Barney's betrayal. Clint wasn't sure that it was actually in him to trust anymore. Still, liking someone and feeling like he had a friend was nice. In spite of what many thought, Clint actually liked people. It was what they were inclined to do to him that he didn't like.

Wilkinson's phone buzzed just then. He fished it out of his pocket and read the message before turning to Clint, who had collected all his arrows up by this point and was preparing to start shooting again.

"You're wanted elsewhere Barton. I just got a text from Coulson asking me to tell you to go to his office right now."

Clint scowled as he lowered his bow.

"Right now? Did he say what he wants me for? By my count I still have ten minutes before I have to be anywhere."

Wilkinson shook his head.

"No, he doesn't say why. Here, you can read the message for yourself if you would like. The wording makes it sound like it's pretty important."

"No, it's fine."

Wilkinson nodded in approval as Clint packed up everything that he'd been using before he left. Leaving the things with Wilkinson to put away (the older agent didn't want him to keep Coulson waiting for too long) Clint headed towards Coulson's office.

He had no idea why his handler wanted to see him right now. Clint just hoped that he wasn't in any trouble. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't a fan of being in trouble. It just seemed to happen.

* * *

Clint had barely entered the room before Coulson looked up from where he was sitting at his desk, a file open in front of him.

"Barton, when were you born?"

Clint blinked.

Twice.

Of all the things he'd been expecting Coulson to say, that wasn't anywhere on the list. For that reason, it took him a moment to answer.

"October 16th, 1978. Why?"

Coulson looked stricken at Clint's words.

"You've turned twenty in the time you've been at SHIELD and I completely missed it. Happy belated birthday Barton. Why didn't you say something?"

Clint blinked again, somewhat a taken aback.

"What should I have said?"

Coulson shook his head.

"I don't know, anything would have done. Where was I when all this was happening may I ask?"

"In a coma? Actually, no. You had just woken up and were loopy on drugs."

Phil winced. He still couldn't remember much about the accident, or his time in medical, but that wasn't why he'd winced.

No, he'd winced because he felt guilty for putting Barton through that sort of thing on his birthday of all days. He knew that he hadn't had any control over it, but still.

"No one else realised it was your birthday or said anything?"

Clint shrugged nonchalantly.

" _I_ didn't realise until after the facts. What is so special about birthdays anyway? You get a year older, big deal. I've never understood why people are so fussy about celebrating their birthdays. I haven't celebrated in years."

"Birthdays are a time to celebrate the fact that you were born…hang on. You say that you haven't celebrated a birthday in years? What about when you were a kid?"

Clint shrugged as his shoulders hunched defensively. Phil noticed the movement, but didn't know if it was deliberate or if the action was involuntary. He wasn't given time to contemplate further before his asset started talking.

"Orphanages and group homes are among the most underfunded institutions on the planet, at least all the ones that I was in were. There was never money to spare for something as trivial as a birthday. Especially when we weren't going to be there for very long."

Phil noticed the use of the word 'we' but was too focussed on what Clint had said earlier to realise its significance.

"Do you mean that they never did anything?"

Clint shrugged. He didn't want to talk about it. Birthdays were a sore point with him. Not because of bad memories associated with them, but because no one had ever done anything special to make him want to celebrate his birthday. It was just another day to him, and had been for close to a decade now.

"My broth- _friend_ , tried."

Clint didn't want to think about Barney, and the brother he'd been to him back then. While those memories were among the fondest from his childhood, they were largely overshadowed by the hatred and betrayal that had come later.

Phil noticed the correction, but decided not to push for more information. He intended to follow up on it one day, but right now simply wasn't the right time. He knew the basics about Charles Bernard Barton, Clint's older brother. After all, he'd found his birth certificate when originally searching for information on Clint. He was five years older, which would have made him eleven when they were orphaned, seeing Clint had been six.

That was basically the only information that Phil had on him.

He was fairly certain that Charles had joined the circus with Clint after running away from the orphanage. It made sense that the brothers would have stuck together. After running away he'd dropped off the radar completely. Phil hadn't bothered pursuing him any further; it was Clint that he wanted. Finding Bernard would take more resources than he'd had at the time, and Phil could think of no way to justify that expense to the higher-ups.

Plus, it wasn't really relevant to his current objective.

"What about in the circus? Did you ever have a birthday party there?"

Barton hadn't said much about his years spent with the travelling circus, and Phil was genuinely curious. The archer had been about eleven when he'd disappeared off the radar the first time. His brother had been sixteen, old enough to legally get a job, and almost too old to get adopted. Phil wondered if that was what had prompted them to leave the orphanage, but knew that the only way he would ever know for sure would be if Clint decided to tell him.

In answer to Phil's earlier question, the archer shrugged again.

"They tried. I wasn't that interested in birthdays by that point. I didn't see the point in them."

Phil wondered how anyone could not be interested in _birthdays_. He was sure when he was fifty he would still like birthdays.

Then again, birthdays were a time to celebrate with family and friends. And family was one thing that Barton didn't have. Phil didn't have family either, but he had good friends who never let him forget how old he was getting with every passing year.

In light of that knowledge, maybe Barton's lack of interest in birthdays was slightly more understandable.

However, looking at the archer, Phil detected a slight change in his posture that made him think that Barton _did_ care more about birthdays than he was letting on.

Phil also knew that getting him to admit that would be a losing battle.

That being the case, Phil decided on not pushing the subject for now. Hopefully, with time, Phil would be able to show Barton that birthdays were a special occasion, and worth celebrating. Right now just wasn't the right time or place.

Still, Phil couldn't just leave it at that with a clear conscience.

"Well, I haven't lost interest in birthdays and so want to do something special for you Barton. Your choice as to what it is. Maybe getting you some gear that isn't SHIELD-issued might be a good place to start, but I want you to have a think on it and get back to me. If it is possible, then we can do it."

Phil was prepared to end their conversation there. He was surprised when Barton looked contemplative for a second before looking at Phil again.

"Anything?"

Phil nodded firmly.

"Providing I can clear it with Director Fury then yes, anything."

Phil didn't care about expense; he had plenty of savings. He just wanted to make this kid happy for once. Damn, Barton was growing on him.

"Would _Director_ Fury let us take a plane to Europe?"

Phil blinked.

"Possibly, depending on the reason. What are you getting at?"

The kid's expression was unreadable.

"Do you remember what I said to you back when you and Fury officially recruited me?"

Phil thought back to the conversation in the prison.

"You said a lot if my memory serves me. What are you referring to in particular?"

"Do you remember the reason I said that I was in Spain?"

Phil thought back and understanding finally dawned.

"You wanted to get some of your stuff to bring with you."

"Bingo."

It took Phil an embarrassingly long time to connect the dots. In his own defence, he _was_ currently under a lot of pressure.

"You want to go to Europe to pick up your things."

"Wow, you really are a spy. Great deductions Sherlock. Top of the class."

Phil shrugged.

"I never liked Holmes that much. I preferred Watson."

The young archer shook his head.

"I haven't actually read the books. The expression just sounds cool."

Phil was quite proud of himself when he managed to resist rolling his eyes, and instead was able to focus on the matter at hand.

"So that's what you want to do? Go to Europe to pick up your things? All you had to do was ask Barton, and we would have done that regardless. I wasn't thinking of anything like that when I told you we could do something. I was thinking more along the lines of something you wouldn't normally do."

The kid looked genuinely confused.

"Would I normally go to Europe to pick up my things?"

Phil sensed he wasn't going to get anywhere if he continued the conversation. Barton's attitude towards birthdays was enough to break Phil's heart. But, like so many things involving Barton, this wasn't something that could be fixed overnight. It would take time and trust for Phil to teach Barton that he was wrong about birthdays.

However, that didn't mean that Phil was going to deny Barton what he'd asked for just because he would have done it regardless.

No, even though it made Phil's poor heart ache, he knew that if he was to have a chance of earning Barton's trust and respect than he had to give him what he'd asked for. He had to show the kid that he was trustworthy with small things before he could expect the archer to trust him with bigger matters.

Baby steps, and lots of them.

"Okay then. It's decided that we'll go wherever in Europe your things are, and collect them, as soon as I can clear it with Fury. Point-of-interest, where _are_ we actually going?"

"Paris and Madrid."

Phil just nodded.

"Okay. I think I can hazard a guess that your own bow is in one of those cities? You didn't have it on you when you were arrested, and I must admit that I've been curious as to where it is."

"I have bows located in both of those cities actually."

Phil just blinked as he processed that information.

"Okay. How many bows do you _have_ for goodness sakes?"

Barton's grin was predatory.

"Just two. My custom made collapsible recurve and my old wooden one. My rifle is also in Madrid while all my clothes are in Paris along with my throwing knives."

Phil just shook his head.

"You do like knives, don't you?"

Clint just shrugged.

"I like anything that's sharp and pointy. Arrows, knives, even swords. I can use them all. Unfortunately, I don't own a sword. Never had need for one."

Phil's mouth actually dropped open in shock.

"Did you just say that you can use a _sword_? That's even more insane than using arrows!"

Phil realised how that sounded after he'd said it but to his relief, before he could apologise, Barton was smirking triumphantly at him.

"I said that I like things that are sharp and pointy. Last time I checked swords definitely fitted into that category."

Phil was just shaking his head in defeat.

"You really do like medieval weaponry, don't you? You'd have done well in the middle ages."

Clint shrugged, he'd never really thought about it. As he'd said to Coulson, he just liked sharp, pointy things.

"It's more challenging to use than modern day weaponry. I like a challenge."

You like creating a challenge you mean, Phil thought, but he didn't say that out loud. Barton was already a walking and talking challenge. He did not need any encouragement to make Phil's life more difficult than it currently was.

Now Phil just had to convince Fury to let them take a jet to Europe. Yep, his life was just one big challenge where Clint Barton was concerned.

* * *

Convincing Fury to let them take a jet to Europe for a couple of days was actually heaps easier than Phil had anticipated.

"So let me get this straight."

Fury glared at Phil, who was standing in his boss's office with his legs spaced just the right distance apart and his hands clasped behind his back.

"You are asking to take a few days off and take a jet to Europe with Barton. Am I right so far?"

Phil nodded.

"Yes."

"What about a pilot? We can't really spare anyone to fly you."

"I can fly myself. I might not like flying, but you know that I keep my credentials current in case I ever do have to."

"What about a co-pilot? You know it is against SHIELD protocols to fly a full size jet without two people knowing how to handle the controls."

"I thought that Barton could fill in for me."

Fury frowned at that.

"Has he learnt how to fly our jets while I wasn't looking?"

"No, not yet. I thought that I could give him a crash course. That way, when he does take official flying lessons, he won't be completely clueless."

Fury snorted.

"Clueless is not how I would describe Barton under any circumstances."

Phil just stared at his boss with a pleading expression. He knew his pleading expression was sometimes more effective in making Fury agree to something than a glare was.

After a few minutes, Fury groaned.

"Fine. Formally submit the request in writing and I'll approve it."

Phil smiled smugly and handed over a correctly filled out form.

Fury seriously hated Phil Coulson sometimes.

"Already done. Now, if you would just sign off on it, I'll go. I've got a trip to Europe to plan."

"I hate you."

Fury signed it anyway.

"I love you too boss."

Fury glared at a smirking Phil.

"Get out!"

* * *

Phil stood in a self-storage unit in Paris, watching as Barton entered the right combination to enable him to get into the small locker that he said was his. When he'd fronted up at the place and flashed one of his old fake ID's (Phil had actually forgotten he still had those) and a charming smile at the man in charge of the units, Phil had almost died from shock.

He was not used to seeing Barton smile at someone, and chatting to them in French, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It just didn't seem _Barton_ somehow. Fortunately, Phil was well trained enough to hide his reactions. The man, thankfully, didn't seem to notice anything was out of the ordinary.

When Barton told the man that he wanted to cancel his lease on the unit and take all his stuff away right now, Phil had to admit that he'd been somewhat surprised. He'd thought that Barton had just wanted a few things. But it made sense that, seeing that he was here now, the archer would want to take everything back to SHIELD with him.

It also reassured Phil that the archer didn't plan on running away anytime soon. Phil had to admit, that thought had been niggling at him for some time.

"Ah-ha."

Barton made a satisfied noise as the combination lock finally popped open and he was able to open the door. Phil couldn't see what was inside from where he was standing, and made no attempt to look. What was in the unit was Barton's business. If he wanted to share than that was his decision to make. Phil watched as Barton drew out a short and slim black case and laid it carefully on top of the locker. Before Phil had too much time to wonder what was in it the young assassin had carefully opened the case to reveal a mass of black limbs.

Phil watched with a frown.

"Where is your bow?"

Barton smirked at him.

"Right here."

"That doesn't look like a bow."

"Watch."

Phil watched as Barton locked the limbs into place and strung what was now most definitely a bow. The whole process took less than five seconds and Barton had a working bow. Phil was impressed.

"A collapsible bow? That is a good idea."

Barton just nodded as he caressed the bow lovingly for a bit before laying it on the top of the locker. He was practically _cooing_ at it. He was certainly looking at it in a way that Phil hadn't seen him look at _anything_ ; certainly he'd never looked at his SHIELD-issued bow like that. That fact made Phil feel guilty that he hadn't thought to wonder about Barton's lack of belongings on joining SHIELD before now.

Phil watched as Barton brought forth a black rucksack that was about three quarters full, and a black quiver that was very full of equally black arrows. Phil raised an eyebrow at all the black.

"I gather that you like the colour black?"

Barton shrugged.

"It doesn't show up the dirt like other colours do, and it also doesn't stand out."

Well, Phil couldn't argue with that logic. He watched as Barton collapsed his bow again and placed it back in its case before slinging the quiver over his right shoulder.

"Can I carry anything to the car for you?"

Barton shook his head.

"I'm fine. This is all that I've got here. Next stop Madrid to pick up my rifle."

They headed back to the car Phil had hired, and drove back to the airport where they had left their jet. It wasn't until they were airborne, and heading for Madrid, that Phil was able to ask a question that had been on his mind ever since they'd turned up at the storage locker.

"How many languages do you speak Barton? I wasn't aware that you knew perfect French, how many more things are there that I don't know about you?"

Barton smirked from where he was sitting in one of the seats that lined the sides of the jet. He'd started cleaning his bow as soon as they'd taken off, but now he stopped to think.

"I can speak and understand French, English, Spanish, Italian and Japanese and German fluently. My accent isn't perfect with all of them however."

Coulson blinked.

"Why aren't they all in your file?"

"No one ever asked me what languages I speak, so I never said anything. I pick up languages very easily."

"So it would seem. What other languages do you know bits of, even if you don't speak them fluently?"

"Norwegian, Mandarin, and Russian. I'm not fluent in those languages but know enough to get by. I also know a few words of Bulgarian, Arabic, Greek and Polish but not enough to hold a conversation in. I mainly know how to ask for directions and where the bathroom is in those last four. Basic things."

Phil blinked yet again. He was glad the jet was on autopilot, as he wasn't paying it much attention in light of what Barton had just told him.

"That's very impressive. Have you learnt all those since leaving the army?"

"Most of them since then. I could already speak French fluently and knew parts of Russian and a few other languages. The majority were learnt by ear in whatever country I happened to be in at the time. Often there just wasn't enough time to learn a language if I was only going to be in a country for a few hours or a day at most. Hence the reason that I only know parts of so many languages. I've been to more countries than that however."

Phil nodded thoughtfully.

"What countries have you been to? Given how many languages you knew, at least in part, I'm thinking that you've probably travelled around quite a bit."

Barton shrugged, even as he smirked.

"After the army I never really stopped moving for long. I've been to Spain, France, Japan, China, Korea, Russia, Australia, Norway, Switzerland, Germany, Hungary and most of the countries on mainland Europe. Oh, and Afghanistan and America; although I haven't ever been to Canada."

Coulson just blinked rapidly.

"I see. You certainly have done a lot of travelling in the past couple of years."

Clint just shrugged again.

"I had the money and besides, I like travelling. Staying in one place for too long can make me twitchy."

Phil frowned.

"Why did you seem to hang around in Paris a fair bit then?"

Barton broke eye contact and suddenly became very focused on waxing his bow string. It was a while before he spoke, but Phil waited patiently.

"Paris was kind of where I ended up after I left the army. I stuck around there for a while, I liked the city and French was the only other language besides English that I knew fluently back then. Later on, when I was travelling around a lot, I sort of kept being drawn back to it. It made for a good stopover point. I would have burnt out if I'd spent all my time travelling."

* * *

 _A few hours later; Madrid, Spain_.

Phil was standing there staring. He couldn't help it.

Barton not only preferred using medieval weaponry, his second bow literally _looked_ like it had come out of the Middle Ages. It was a dark polished wooden recurve that wouldn't look out of place in any Robin Hood movie.

Actually it would.

On second glance, Phil realised that the handgrip and bowstring were purple.

 _Purple_.

Surprisingly (or not, this was Barton) it actually didn't look strange on the bow.

It just looked very _Barton_.

Phil was still blinking at the bow when Barton brought out a rifle case and placed it carefully on the ground. Instead of closing the locker he stood there and smirked at Phil, who was still just staring at the bow.

"Something wrong boss-man?"

Phil blinked.

"Why the purple?"

Barton looked very innocent.

"What's not to like about purple?"

Phil just shook his head.

"I just wasn't expecting it, that's all. It looks like an antique bow until you see the purple. That was a bit of a shock."

"I like purple. Besides, it pleases crowds."

It took Phil a few moments to figure out what Barton was saying.

"That bow...is that the same one that you used during your years with the circus? That would explain the purple."

Barton glanced briefly at Phil before looking away again and placing the bow back in the locker. He apparently wasn't taking this one with him. It took him so long to speak, that Phil was beginning to think that he wasn't going to get an answer to his question. It wasn't until they were in the hired car heading back to their motel that Barton answered the question.

"Yes, it is the same one. I've had that bow for many years."

He offered no more information, and Phil decided not to push. He knew Barton's circus days were a touchy subject for some reason, and was prepared to wait until Barton wanted to talk about things. Hopefully, one day the archer would trust him enough to tell him what had happened to cause him to leave the circus. That part of his past was a complete mystery. From Phil's research, his act seemed to be as popular as ever when he disappeared off the map and reappeared with the army some time later. Phil had no idea why.

It was yet another mystery in the bigger mystery that was Barton. The kid kept his secrets close to his chest, and Phil knew that digging around wouldn't produce any results. It would just cause the archer to clamp up.

For that reason, all he could do for now was work on earning Barton's trust. Hopefully, once he had that, the rest of the things that he wanted would come.

* * *

 _Early December 1998; Fury's Office; SHIELD's New York Base._

May's eyes narrowed, but that was the only outward sign she gave that she wasn't happy about this assignment.

Fury just stared at her as he waited for her to make up her mind about whether or not she would do this. After what seemed like an eternity, May finally spoke.

"I will do it, but on one condition. I go in there to help with agent training, nothing else. I was over the Academy years ago. I have no desire to go back in, but I will do it for you. I'd better get my own room though."

"You will. The official story will be that you are there to help with the training of the newest batch of recruits."

May smirked as she gave Fury a raised eyebrow.

"And the unofficial story? You never do anything without an ulterior motive."

Fury's smile did not bide well for someone.

"You know what I want you to do."

Ma's smirk took on a dangerous quality.

"Yes. I know why you are sending me in. This should be interesting."

Fury seriously liked Melinda May.

She was a no-nonsense person who was prepared to do whatever it took to get the job done. Yet she was also smart, and kept her head in difficult situations. It was a pity there weren't more people like her in the world, Fury felt. If he had an army of Melinda May's at his disposal, then more than half his problems would probably disappear.

Sadly, he only had one. That being the case, he had to use her wisely.

"So, when do I leave?"

Fury looked at May, who was staring at him unblinkingly. Unlike other people that Fury was not going to name; her stare was respectful.

"I'll let you know the exact details closer to the time. It hasn't been arranged yet, but I'm thinking early March. The Academy should be open again by then, and I want eyes in there ASAP. I'm sure that something fishy is going on there, and I want to know what it is."

"And you are sending me in because I know what it was like a few years ago and can give you an honest assessment if things have changed."

"Yes."

May nodded.

"Okay. Is that all sir?"

Fury nodded.

"Yes. You are dismissed, Agent May."

After she was gone, Fury allowed his shoulders to slump slightly as he let out a sigh. May didn't know it, but she had the easy job here. What he was planning on doing was much harder. May just had to deal with assessing new recruits and Academy trainers, and keeping her ears open for any gossip that was relevant to the investigation.

Fury had to assess the WSC and the other top brass at SHIELD, without them finding out what he was doing. That wasn't easy, not even for the world's greatest spy. It would, in fact, be an impossible task by most people's standards.

Fury, however, wasn't most people.

He was Nick Fury. Doing the impossible was practically his whole job description.

Still, that didn't make it any easier.

* * *

 **End of chapter 2.**

* * *

 **Wilkinson is awesome, Phil and Clint are bonding (with the speed of a glacier), Fury is on the trail of the traitor (yes, I haven't forgotten about them, don't worry), and May is her usual bad-ass self.**

 **You're welcome.**

 **See you next time!**


	3. All colours seem to fade away

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **Disappointingly, last chapter didn't seem to be that popular as it only got one review. If you are reading this story and enjoying it, but didn't leave a review, I have no way of knowing you enjoyed it. And the more interest this story gets, the quicker I will post it.**

 **So an extra special shout-out to Freeranger, my only reviewer of chapter 2!**

 **This chapter was beta-ed by jaguarspot, so thanks also goes out to her. Any mistakes that remain are mine.**

 **I hope that people are enjoying what I've written, and if anyone recognises that song that the chapter titles are from let me know! It is a really great song, and very fitting for Clint.**

* * *

You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough. _Frank Crane_

* * *

 **Chapter 3: All colours seem to fade away**

 _Mid-January, 1999; SHIELD's New York Base._

Phil entered the gym area. The first thing he heard was Shelley's voice.

"Barton, you can't always wait for the other person to make the first hit! I agree that it is a good strategy, but in certain situations can get you killed. You have to learn how to fight offensively if you are ever to get anywhere in SHIELD, you can't always rely on defence."

Shelley didn't even stop for breath, instead ploughing on.

"Kelly, you have the opposite problem. You don't think before you attack, and are thrown off guard after your first attack for a few seconds. This gives your opponent ample opportunity to turn the tables on you, just like Barton did. Your stance is also sloppy."

"I'm beginning to seriously wonder what they taught you at the Academy. New graduates didn't use to be this hopeless."

Phil sighed upon hearing that. He was concerned about Barton himself. Over the last couple of weeks, it had become increasingly clear that Barton needed to learn some basic techniques before he was ready to go into more advanced training. He had a number of bad habits that they had to break if he was to be able to advance in his training.

Happily, Phil had actually been given the all-clear by medical that morning, and was now allowed to do strenuous exercise again. They hadn't cleared him for missions yet, but Phil was in no hurry for it to happen. Right now, he was just glad that he could finally start to train Barton in hand-to-hand.

In spite of his carefully cultivated paper-pusher appearance, Phil did know a thing or two about physical combat. He was fairly confident that he would be able to help Barton advance his training much faster than he would learn if he stayed in the main pool of agents.

Phil walked up to where Shelley was standing with her hands resting on her hips. She was watching the pair who were currently sparring in the ring (Barton wasn't one of them, he was standing off to one side taking sips from a bottle of water) and calling out advice and comments about their fighting, even as she smiled at Phil.

"Here to see how your boy is going?"

Phil shrugged.

"Partially. I have nothing else to do right now, so thought I'd come down and see how things are going. Also, I've heard that you are leaving SHIELD at the end of the month. Is that true? I have to admit that I was surprised to hear that."

Shelley shook her head in exasperation.

"I'm not leaving SHIELD; I'm transferring to another base. I honestly don't know how people got the idea that I am leaving SHIELD. I'm not. Rather, I'm moving to a SHIELD base down in Wisconsin to be closer to my mom. She is very sick, and I am all she has in the way of family, since my dad passed away two years ago. So, once the twenty-ninth of this month comes around, I am gone."

Phil nodded.

"Okay, so you are _transferring_ , not leaving. Things make a lot more sense now. What's going to happen when you're gone? Are we getting a new trainer in?"

Shelley shrugged her shoulders.

"I honestly don't know. I hope so; we need a proper trainer on this base. The huge influx of new graduates from the Academy need more than just a supervisor, they need a proper trainer. I've put in all the correct forms to request one be assigned here, but I have no say in the matter once I leave. They might send an Academy trainer here even; I honestly don't know what will happen. And to be honest, I don't really care at this point in time."

Just then Barton wandered over towards Phil. Shelley muttered something about one of the other agents and went over to the pair who had just finished sparring, leaving the two of them alone. Barton was obviously tired, but there was a determination in him that was very familiar to Phil by this stage.

"How's the training going Barton?"

The kid shrugged as they watched Shelley ream out one of the younger agents for doing something stupid. They couldn't hear what she said from where they were standing, but from the way the agent cowered it wasn't nice.

"I'm constantly getting yelled at, no matter what I do. If I don't hit I get yelled at, and I get yelled at if I do hit."

Phil nodded.

"I know. You need more intense training than what you are getting here. The good news is that I am finally fully cleared by medical. So, starting next Monday; I will be training you in advance hand-to-hand combat in the mornings before breakfast. It should be fun."

Barton looked horrified.

" _Before_ breakfast? That's cruel. How long _before_ breakfast?"

Phil smiled.

"No later than five am, seven days a week. I will release you at seven so you can grab some breakfast before general training starts at eight."

Barton looked even more horrified.

"You're cruel."

"Do you or do you not want to be an agent Barton? If your answer to that is yes, then the extra training shouldn't bother you. If you don't want to be an agent all you have to do is say so, and we'll send you back."

Barton just grumbled and stalked off with his head in the air. Phil let him go. He didn't want to make a scene in public, but something told him that sparring with Barton was going to be an experience; one that neither of them would forget in a hurry.

* * *

 _Thursday morning, almost a week later._

Beep, beep, beep.

Phil groaned as his alarm informed him it was time to wake up. Fumbling around on his bedside table, Phil eventually found the off button and pushed it. Blessed silence descended on him. Phil wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep. But he knew he couldn't do that.

Phil groaned again as he sat up and stretched. Phil knew that he didn't have much time before he was due to meet Barton for his advanced hand-to-hand combat training. It was with another long groan that Phil heaved himself out of bed. Being vertical did nothing to help him wake up properly, but at least now he was in less danger of falling asleep again.

Phil dressed in athletic pants and a t-shirt. He did possess a few casual items of clothing, no matter what the rumour mill would have you believe. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't completely live in a suit. It just happened to best fit his needs most of the time.

As he got dressed, Phil thought about Barton. This was to be their fourth day of intensive training, and Phil did not know what to expect from his young charge. Barton was completely unpredictable in what he said or did at any given time.

For example, on Monday he'd listened to Phil and done everything he'd been told. On Tuesday, he had ignored Phil completely and literally ran circles around him. On Wednesday, he'd attempted to take Phil down repetitively in spite of having been told not to multiple times.

Phil knew that Barton was testing him; everything to do with Barton was a test it seemed. What he was being tested for this time, Phil honestly did not know. But he was determined not to let Barton's behaviour get to him. No matter what happened. He had to keep his cool if he was to have a chance of building any sort of a relationship with Barton.

Still, the fact that they seemed to be taking one step forward, only for something to happen that would seem to take them two steps back, was somewhat discouraging. It could be worse; Phil reasoned to himself as he exited his apartment and heading towards the training room, it could be three steps back.

But nonetheless, it was still very frustrating.

* * *

 _Late January._

Clint was beating up a punching bag in one of the smaller gyms.

He didn't know how long he'd been there for; but, as Coulson had cancelled their protocol lesson for today, he'd needed to do something to distract himself. In spite of (or possibly because of) everything that was happening, Clint was finding it harder and harder to keep his mask in place, and his emotions locked down. Physical exertion was one of the only things that was keeping him grounded at the moment, and so Clint was pushing himself, hard. It was virtually the only way that he could forget about his current problems.

And there were a lot of them. However, the biggest problem was his handler, Agent Coulson.

The reason Clint was so edgy and uptight was because his handler was just _too damn kind_.

No one was ever kind to Clint Barton. Not unless they wanted something very specific from him in return, something that he more than likely wasn't willing to give them. He'd learnt that a long time ago, and he'd learnt it the hard way. He still had the scars from that lesson.

Coulson, however, was the exception to every single rule life had taught him about people.

Clint had been at SHIELD for about four months now, and almost three of those had been spent with Coulson solely responsible for him. During that whole time, Clint couldn't remember one incident where the agent had been anything but kind. Clint had purposefully done everything in his power to piss the agent off, and make him show his true colours.

However, in spite of Clint's best efforts, Coulson had remained unchanged.

It was getting to the point where Clint couldn't handle the kindness and understanding that Coulson was constantly inflicting on him. Clint didn't understand why someone would be so kind to him, and didn't know how to react.

He was a murderer with a dark past, who definitely didn't deserve all that they were doing for him. He was broken beyond repair, so why would Coulson go to all this trouble to make Clint feel like he was worth something?

It didn't make sense, and unsettled Clint like nothing had in years.

And Clint Barton had a very well developed way of dealing with things that unsettled him, or that he didn't understand.

Ignore the problem for as long as possible, and hope it goes away.

It wasn't the best strategy, but it was the only way that Clint could cope.

It was the only way he knew _how_ to cope.

* * *

 _Early February._

Phil glanced at the clock and frowned. Barton was three minutes late to their afternoon session.

That was unusual.

Since Phil had gotten him the extra range time back in December, Barton had always made sure to be on time to their lessons. It was part of the deal they had made, and up to now had worked pretty well.

Phil didn't even look up when the door opened.

"You're late."

Receiving no answer, Phil looked up. He was just in time to see Barton stagger into the briefing room, and all but collapsed into his chair.

Phil looked in surprise at his young charge.

"What on earth has happened to you?"

Barton was too tired to even muster the energy to glare at Phil. That didn't stop him trying to, but he wasn't very successful.

"Training. That new trainer is a slave-driver."

Phil raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so? Did you think that maybe you just need to be fitter?"

Barton didn't respond, instead he pouted and moaned dramatically as he moved to sit up a bit straighter in his chair.

"Ow. Everything hurts. This is abuse to agents. I should report him."

"I doubt anyone will listen. He's good then is he?"

Barton had managed to muster enough energy by this point to glare at Phil.

"I told you already, he is a slave-driver. They never worked us this hard at the Academy."

Phil hummed.

"Well, they should have. In the middle of a mission, if you are tired and fatigued, you won't get a break. You will have to push on regardless of your physical condition or health. It seems the Academy has lowered its standards in recent years. I might have to see about remediating that."

Barton eyed the stack of books Phil had sitting next to him on the table with clear distaste.

"Do we really have to do this today? My body has just been put through the wringer, and now I have to put my brain through it as well? Surely there is some rule somewhere that forbids overworking of assets?"

Phil looked at Barton with a deadpan expression.

"Depends on your definition of overworking. It wouldn't be such a chore if you'd just do it properly the first time, and not argue with me over every single protocol."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Phil raised both his eyebrows at that.

"This is your idea of fun? Arguing with me about everything, and prolonging our sessions as a result? You have a twisted idea of fun Barton, that's for sure."

The kid just glared at him.

Phil didn't let it affect him. Rather, he was genuinely concerned for his asset. He did look beat and like he was about to collapse.

"You've had plenty of water and something to eat I hope Barton? I don't want a sudden collapse on my hands due to you neglecting to look after yourself properly."

Barton looked away at Phil's question.

"Yes, I have. Honestly, all you do is fuss. You'd think I was incapable of taking care of myself, listening to the way you go on and on about this and that."

"As your handler, it is my job to make sure that you are looking after yourself properly. I am responsible for your well-being, and for making sure that you can function at the peak of perfection at all times. I take that responsibility seriously, Barton."

"I can look after myself just fine. I don't need you to do it for me. I've looked after myself for years. It hasn't killed me yet."

Phil felt a headache forming, even as his heart ached for his confused asset. It was like he was completely incapable of comprehending why another person would care about him.

"I know that you can look after yourself Barton, but those days are over now. You aren't alone anymore. Part of my job as your handler is to see that you aren't ever alone again. Let me do my job Barton. Please."

The kid (and he was just a kid, in spite of being twenty) huffed before rubbing his eyes and slumping down in his seat with a sigh.

"Fine. Whatever. _Handler_. Are we going to do this now or not?"

Phil handed him the right booklet without a word. When Barton had found the right page Phil started to read out the next scenario in the book.

"Protocol for dealing with the local inhabitants of an area when you don't speak their language..."

* * *

Later that evening, Phil was working late in his office. He was just starting to think about going up to his quarters to get some sleep, when there was a knock on the door. Frowning, Phil checked the time.

10:10 pm.

Who on earth would want to see him at this time of night?

"Come in."

The door opened to reveal Agent Vince Ardern, the new trainer. He nodded at Phil as he entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him.

"Agent Coulson. Do you have a moment? I need to see you about Barton."

Phil's worry spiked at that, but he remained calm faced.

"Of course Ardern, please sit down. What's wrong?"

Ardern sat down and looked at Phil.

"Maybe you could tell me?"

Phil's confusion must have shown on his face, because after a moment, Ardern sighed.

"That kid of yours is a mess, Coulson. He came to my class this morning looking like he hadn't slept in days, and yet worked harder than anyone else did."

Both Phil's eyebrows went up at hearing that.

"He was certainly exhausted this afternoon. However, when I asked him, he said that you were a hard task master. No offense. Are you saying that he pushed himself that hard?"

"Well, I certainly didn't let anyone slack off. But Barton did push himself beyond what I would have demanded of him. What's the story behind that boy, Coulson? It's obvious he's a victim of child abuse, but there is something else going on there, something big. You don't get that sort of darkness in you from abuse alone."

Phil blinked.

"How do you know about the child abuse? Even we don't know much about it, except that it happened."

Ardern sighed as his dark brown eyes met Phil's across the table. For a moment, there was a deep sadness in them that shocked Phil. But then it disappeared as fast as it had come when the part Indian man spoke.

"I know about the abuse because, well; let's just say that I've seen it many times before. All the signs are there if you know what to look for. It's so bad in Barton that I'm not sure if that kid has ever had a time in his life where he wasn't the victim. Am I correct so far?"

Phil's mouth had dropped further and further as Ardern had been speaking. For that reason, it took him a few moments to collect his thoughts enough to answer Ardern.

"Yes, you've pretty much summed it up."

Ardern nodded, not seeming the least surprised that he was right.

"Also, how long has he been out of the military?"

After everything that Ardern had just said, Phil wasn't that surprised that the trainer had picked up on the fact that Barton was ex-military.

"About two years now. How do you know that?"

"He's obviously had basic military combat training, but it has slipped. Hints of it are still there, but he has clearly been in situations since where he has had to fight for his life."

Phil nodded immediately.

"Yes, he has been. In answer to your question, he was in the army for almost eighteen months and worked as a sniper. He left them in less than stellar circumstances."

Ardern pursed his lips in thought.

"What happened to him then?"

Phil decided that it wouldn't hurt to tell Ardern the basic details surrounding Barton and his recruitment.

"He went to ground, and wasn't heard from for almost ten months. After that time, he re-emerged as an assassin for hire."

Ardern didn't look surprised at hearing that. Phil was starting to wonder if anything would surprise the man.

"How long was he out there for?"

"As far as we can tell, it was almost eighteen months."

Ardern actually looked stunned at hearing that.

"Man, my respect for that kid grows. He is a survivor all right. What caused him to come in?"

"I offered him job. I had reasons to believe that he was a better person than he thought he was, and that he didn't enjoy what he was doing. I offered him a chance to do something good for a change, and he took it. I haven't had reason to regret that decision yet."

Ardern now looked very thoughtful.

"How long has he been with SHIELD?"

"He arrived in early September last year, so about five months now, I think. I've been his sole handler since early December. He was at the Academy before that."

Ardern winced.

"That actually explains a lot. Whose bright idea was it to send him there?"

Phil was surprised.

"You think it was the wrong thing to do?"

Ardern sighed.

"Probably. I just know that I don't like it there, but that doesn't mean anything."

He didn't elaborate on what he meant, and Phil didn't like to push. He didn't know Ardern well enough for that. Though they had met before, and even gone on missions together a few times when Phil was younger, they'd never really interacted on a personal level. Phil supposed that, with Barton around, that was going to change.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about that kid that might help me understand him better?"

Phil gave the question considerable thought. Finally reaching a decision, he moved to unlock his office safe and handed a SHIELD file to Ardern. The agent took it with a look of confusion.

"What's this?"

Phil sighed.

"The little information that we have on Barton's past. Since you are going to be training him, I think that it's better that you are read in so you know what you are up against. Believe me, trying to understand that kid, knowing what is in his file, is hard enough. I couldn't, with a clear consciousness, send you in completely blind. Barton is stuck in general training for who knows how long, so you are going to see a fair bit of him. Knowing some of his past will help you not to go insane."

"Trust me; you are going to need all the help that you can get. Barton isn't an easy case."

Ardern took the offered file, but didn't attempt to open it. He just looked at it, and then at Phil.

"I know he has the look about him of someone who is on his last chance, but is it really that bad?"

Phil grimaced.

"Yes. Read the file, it will help to explain a lot. That information is classified, so you can't take it out of my office. However, take your time reading it. It's a lot to take in."

* * *

 _Three weeks later, late February, 1999, 4:55 am._

Phil arrived at the gym that he was training Barton in at five minutes to five. Phil was unsurprised to find his young charge was already there. Not only was he already there, but he was beating up a punching bag with a ferocity that Phil hadn't seen present in his asset before, but was now impossible to miss. Ignoring it for the moment, Phil greeted Barton cheerfully. Just like he had every morning since they had started training together almost a month ago.

"Morning Barton. You're very industrious this morning; you've already started warming up."

He got no response, verbal or otherwise, from the young assassin. Phil frowned internally. This wasn't right.

Even if the archer wasn't feeling social, Phil normally got some sort of response from him. Even if it was just a shoulder shrug or glance.

This morning there was nothing. Barton continued to punch the bag as if his life depended on it. Phil had a moment to wonder if the archer was wearing his hearing aids, but then Barton stopped punching and turned around to face Phil.

When he got a good look at Barton's face, Phil's worry spiked.

The kid looked absolutely beat.

He had dark circles under his eyes, eyes which looked like they'd seen a ghost. There was a mixture of resignation and deep seated fear in them that was almost enough to make Phil falter for a moment.

In all the time he'd spent with Barton since recruiting him, Phil had never seen that expression in his eyes. On top of that, the kid looked like he was about to collapse, and was likely staying vertical by sheer force of will.

Phil was actually considering postponing their lesson, and forcibly sending Barton to bed to get some rest, when the archer spoke.

"You gonna spar with me or are we gonna stand here all day?"

That snapped Phil out of the mild shock he'd gone into at seeing the state Barton was in.

"We can spar, but are you okay Barton? You don't look so great."

"I'm _fine_."

The venom in the kids answer didn't surprise Phil. The archer never did take concern about his well-being as anything other than an insult. In the whole time that Phil had been responsible for the archer, that was one thing that hadn't changed.

Still...

"Are you sure about that? You look beat already, and we haven't even started our daily two-hour session yet. Don't think that I will be easy on you because you are tired. I won't be, so I need to know that you are up to this."

"I already said that I am _fine_. I just had a bad night. Now are we doing this or are we going to stand here gossiping all day?"

Phil wasn't happy about going on, but couldn't think of any other good reasons to postpone their training that wouldn't upset Barton.

And while Phil had no reservation about saying 'no' if he thought it was for the greater good he sensed that, in this instance, it would be better to go along with it.

However, in spite of his earlier words, Phil didn't intend to push the archer too hard. He still thought this was a bad idea. But Phil knew he didn't have a hope of convincing Barton of that at this point.

Besides, the only way the kid would learn was to make mistakes. Phil just hoped he wasn't making a mistake right now by carrying through with this.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Phil focused on the job at hand.

"Okay then. Now, I want you to put into effect all that we've practiced over the last month about fighting offensively. So, today I want you to come at me hard and concentrate on making a plan to take me down. Don't worry about hurting me, I can look after myself. But I want you to stay focused."

Barton glared daggers at him as they faced each other on the training mat.

"What made you think that I was going to take it easy? You're going down Agent."

Phil allowed himself a brief smirk, and saw Barton's eyes narrow fractionally.

"We'll see about that. Now, let's see what you've got Barton."

* * *

The third time Clint hit the mat he didn't bother getting up straight away. Coulson just stood there with not one hair out of place, watching him with a small frown on his face.

"I don't know what you are playing at here Barton, but we both know that you are better than this. Defence might be your best strategy, but you aren't completely clueless when it comes to landing punches. That has become increasingly obvious over the last few weeks, so what is the matter today Barton? What has happened to you? It seems that you aren't even making an effort to take me down."

Clint just glared as he stood up and faced Coulson again, readying his stance as he did so.

Clint didn't miss the way his handler sighed before adopting a similar stance.

"Okay Barton. This time I want you to watch for an opening and then press that advantage by planning out each move so that it seamlessly melds together. I don't want you to just fight in the moment. If you are ever to improve than you can't leave things to luck and trust that you can get out of any hole you fall into. The point is not to fall into a trap in the first place. That's what I'm trying to teach you here."

Clint was already exhausted from spending all night in the shooting range, trying to escape from the nightmares that haunted his sleep. The lack of sleep over the last couple of weeks was also starting to catch up; but he forced himself to keep going regardless. He waited for an opening in Coulson's defences and took it, only to have to dodge Coulson's fist. He was finding it harder and harder to focus, but by sheer force of will managed to get three more hits in before he blinked and found himself on his back on the sparring mat again. Coulson just stood there and sighed.

"This isn't getting us anywhere. Go and get some rest Barton. You are clearly exhausted. You are also not allowed in the range or any of the gyms until you've at least attempted to sleep. I will escort you back to your room myself to make sure that you don't run off. In spite of what you may think, sleep is essential Barton. Something tells me that you aren't getting enough of it lately."

Clint glared even harder as he forced himself to get up and turn around to face Coulson. He ignored the slight wobble in his stance as he tried to attack the agent, only to have Coulson calmly disable him with no more than a flick of his wrist. Before Clint could blink again he was back on his back on the mat, only this time Coulson was holding him there. The agents grip on his wrists was light, but firm, as he pinned Clint to the ground. Even so, Clint had a moment of panic, and started struggling, before Coulson's voice penetrated his exhausted brain.

"Barton, STOP FIGHTING ME. I do not want to hurt you, but if you keep going like you are you will injure yourself. You are exhausted Barton, actually, you are past exhausted. How you are even managing to stand right now is beyond me."

* * *

Phil calmly held Barton down, even as he was still feeling shaky from the events of the last few minutes. The kid tried to struggle, but he was obviously exhausted and didn't have a hope of breaking away. Once the archer stopped struggling, Phil loosened his grip a fraction. Not enough to allow Barton to wriggle out, but enough that he was simply holding the archer down, not pinning him to the mat.

"Barton, look at me."

Predictably, Barton refused. Phil tightened his grip on the archer's wrists a fraction as he projected authority into his voice.

"Barton. I said look at me."

That got the kid's attention and he glared at Coulson.

Coulson had to remind himself that being angry with Barton wouldn't get them anywhere. For that reason, Phil was careful to keep his voice calm and controlled and when he spoke, his tone was neutral.

"What was that about Barton? Did you really think that you had a hope of taking me down with the state you are currently in?"

Phil suspected the problem was that Barton _hadn't_ thought. That he'd been running purely on adrenaline and sheer stubbornness, and that those two things had, unsurprisingly, failed him.

In answer to Phil's question, Barton averted his eyes from Phil's again and refused to say anything. After a few moments, when it became obvious Barton wasn't going to answer him, Phil decided that enough was enough.

"You need rest Barton. As you obviously can't be trusted to look after yourself, I have no choice but to go with you to make sure that you get what you need."

Barton glared at him, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. In spite of that, he obviously wasn't going to give in without a fight. Phil didn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed with his agent's inherent stubbornness and stupidity.

Sensing that Barton wasn't about to cooperate with him, Phil played his trump card. He knew that this was the only way to make Barton listen to him.

"And, if you don't come with me now and cooperate fully, you will find yourself handcuffed to a bed in medical and dosed up on sleeping medication before you can blink. Yes, as your handler I do have the authority to do that if I think that it is in your best interest. So, will you cooperate with me if I let you get up?"

Barton's glare slipped at hearing that, and he took a shaky breath before he gave one jerky nod. Satisfied that his asset wasn't about to do anything too stupid as he hated medical, Phil moved back and allowed Barton to get up. Once he was standing Phil moved slowly, telegraphing his moves so as not to startle Barton. In his current state, it wouldn't take much to push the assassin over the edge. Phil did not want that to happen.

He just wanted to get Barton to bed so he could get some sleep. Sleep that his body desperately needed, in spite of what his brain appeared to be telling him.

"Okay then, we'll go back to your room now. Can you walk there by yourself?"

Phil was on the receiving end of an angry glare and a nod from his asset. The fact that it wasn't accompanied by sarcasm had Phil even more worried for Barton's wellbeing.

"Good. Let's go."

* * *

Phil was sitting in the desk chair at the table in Barton's room, catching up on some paperwork that he'd grabbed from his office after forcibly making Barton lay down. That had been a struggle in itself.

Phil had thought that the archer would be more comfortable without his boots or belt on, but said archer had other ideas. Another fight had almost broken out over it before Phil had realised what the problem was and had backed off. Eventually, he'd managed to make the kid stay on his bed, and once Barton had lain down, he was asleep within a minute.

That had been almost three hours ago, and he hadn't so much as twitched since then. That was why, when Phil heard the strange whimpering noise, he couldn't immediately place what it was. It almost sounded like a child, but there were no children anywhere near here. Phil hadn't any idea where the noise had come from.

It wasn't until Barton suddenly let out a strangled cry, and arched off the bed in his sleep, that Phil realised the source of the noise.

"Barton, it's okay. Wake up Barton, everything is fine."

His agent thrashed and whimpered, still caught in the throngs of whatever nightmare had taken hold in just a few short hours. Phil later realised that touching the assassin hadn't been the best idea in the world. At the time he hadn't been thinking straight, and had almost paid for that oversight dearly.

No sooner had Phil touched Barton's arm then he found himself pinned to the floor with a knife held to his throat. In spite of his heart missing several beats, Phil did not panic. Instead, seeing that Barton's eyes were open now, if glazed and unfocussed, Phil continued to speak softly and soothingly. He lay as still as a rock so as not to make Barton feel any more threatened then he did already.

"Hey, it's okay Barton. Everything is okay. You just had a nightmare, it's not real. Breathe Barton, everything will be okay. Just breathe; No one is going to hurt you."

Phil wasn't sure how long he laid there, but he knew the exact moment when Barton's brain caught up with reality. The look in his assets eyes when that happened was something that Phil would never forget.

Barton leaped off Phil like he'd been burnt and with one leap was over the other side of the bed and cowering against the wall on the opposite side of the room. His eyes were still wild but Phil could tell his agent was back with him. Phil slowly sat up, keeping his hands where the assassin could see them and not looking directly at Barton so he wouldn't feel threatened.

"Everything is going to be okay, Barton."

The kid gave a choked laugh.

"Nothing is okay Coulson. Nothing can ever be okay."

Phil stayed calm, in spite of the fact his heart was beating twice as fast as usual and his adrenaline rush was fading, leaving him feeling exhausted.

"What do you mean by that, Barton?"

The broken glare he received in answer to his question literally did break Phil's poor heart.

"Why do you care?"

"I care because I am your handler. It is my job..."

Phil never got any further.

"SHUT UP AND STOP LYING!"

Phil blinked.

"I'm not..."

"I said to SHUT UP!"

"Barton..."

Before Phil could say anything else he found himself flat on his back on the floor again, winded. By the time he sat up, Barton was gone. The only clue as to where he went was the air vent cover that was lying on the ground, a gaping hole in the ceiling where it had been. Phil slowly got up and went over to it, wondering how Barton had removed it so quickly. A closer inspection revealed that the screws had been replaced with magnets at some point. Another inspection of the vent opening revealed that the archer was gone. Phil knew he could be anywhere by now. The vent system within the SHIELD base was very extensive.

Phil sat down on Barton's bed and put his head in his hands as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He'd stuffed up big time here, and he didn't even know exactly what he'd done wrong.

From day one, he'd tried to do whatever he possibly could to help Barton. He'd suffered through the verbal abuse, sarcasm and whatever else the archer had put his way without losing his temper. Phil was determined to prove to Barton that he was worth something.

Phil had initially hoped that, with time and patience, he could break down the barriers that Barton had built around himself.

It was clearly going to take more than that to get Barton to let Phil in and trust him.

For perhaps the first time in his whole life, Phillip James Coulson did not know what to do about a situation.

* * *

 **End of chapter 3**

* * *

 **Poor Phil. Poor Clint. I should probably try writing something light and fluffy one day as an apology for the mental anguish and trauma that I put them through.**


	4. I can't reach my soul

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **Thankyou for reviewing people, I now know that this story is being read and enjoyed! And thanks to those who also reviewed earlier chapters! So long as people are interested, I will keep posting every two to three days.**

 **Freeranger, TheNaggingCube, Qweb and Guest all reviewed the last chapter, thank you guys!**

 **This chapter was beta-read by jaguarspot, and Freeranger intensively consulted while it was being written. Any mistakes that are found I take responsibility for.**

 **Also, the other mission/evaluation that Clint refers to is covered in the one-shot that I will be posting after this story is complete. Though that I'd mention that just in case there is some confusion.**

 **Enjoy the angst!**

* * *

The toughest thing about the power of trust is that it's very difficult to build and very easy to destroy. _Thomas J. Watson_

* * *

 **Chapter 4: I can't reach my soul**

 _February 28_ _th_ _, 1999._

Barton glared at him.

"A training mission. A real one this time, not like that crap you made me do last time."

Phil nodded, careful to keep his expression professional.

"Yes. You are ready for a real one. We can't take your training much further until you've passed your next evaluation, which is this mission."

Unsurprisingly, Barton didn't respond to that. He just watched Phil with narrowed eyes, his mask of indifference firmly in place. He'd worn that look almost constantly over the last week.

It made Phil wish harder than ever that there was some way to go back and fix what had happened between them a week ago. It had been the day when Phil had forcibly made Barton get some rest, after he'd almost collapsed in training, that their current lot of problems had started.

In spite of working with the kid constantly for almost three months now, Phil still couldn't get a clear read on Barton. It was near impossible to figure out how he really felt about something. He kept his real feelings expertly hidden under a mask of indifference or anger. Sometimes both.

Phil was trying his best not to let it worry him. He kept his cool and continued to treat Barton the same way that he had from the beginning. Knowing that the longer they left it, the worse it would be, Phil had tried to talk to Barton about what he'd witnessed several times over the last week. Barton had stonewalled or ignored him every single time, and carried on as if nothing had happened. Barton's determination to ignore what had happened was setting Phil on edge.

Denial could only end badly.

Phil knew that from experience. He just hoped that, when the storm eventually broke, he would be able to put the pieces of broken archer back together afterwards.

"Where am I going?"

"SHIELD has a training compound located a few hours away that we will use. I've been given the green light to take you there and emulate a mission, complete with an objective for you to fulfil. Here's the file for you to look at."

Phil placed said file on the desk. Barton didn't touch it, just looked at Phil with that sharp gaze of his as the Agent continued speaking.

"As your handler, I'll be coming with you and serving as support on location."

At that Barton picked up the folder and flipped it open. After a few minutes, he looked at Coulson and narrowed his eyes.

"So, I have to stop an AIM vehicle that is carrying a cargo that SHIELD wants to get hold off. I have to take out all the guards without damaging the cargo or the vehicle to the point where it isn't useable, as SHIELD wants to drive the vehicle away themselves."

"That is correct."

Barton huffed.

"Surly they could have made a _practice mission_ slightly more challenging?"

Phil felt the very familiar headache coming on.

"It might be a practice mission, but that doesn't mean that we treat it as being less important than a real mission would be. However, you will be using a paintball rifle in place of real firearms. The rules state that weaponry must be non-lethal for practice missions, and your bow isn't that I'm afraid."

Barton scowl deepened.

"Why can't I have paintball arrows then? That'll be _awesome_. I don't like guns of any sort. They are too noisy and clunky."

The wicked glee in Barton's eyes at the thought of paintball arrows was enough to fill Phil with dread. He didn't dare to think what Barton would be like with non-lethal weaponry at his disposal.

"You'll have to talk to R & D about that when we get back from the mission. I'm sure they would be happy to oblige if you ask nicely enough. There is to be no shooting at people who piss you off though. No matter how non-lethal your weaponry is, you are banned from doing that, Barton. If I find you breaking that rule, you lose your extra range time."

The archer pouted as he crossed his arms and looked just like a sulky child.

"Way to ruin the fun before it even starts."

"Tough. I'm sure that you'll live with it."

Barton looked even sulkier as he slouched lower in his chair and glared at Phil. After having been on the receiving end of Fury's glare for many years, Barton's attempts to burn a hole through him didn't even make Phil twitch. Instead he calmly looked at his watch before turning to face his asset.

"We leave in three hours; I'll be driving us. Pack warm clothes, and make sure that you pack enough for a couple of days."

"Where will we be staying?"

"In a SHIELD safe house located nearby. I'll be handling you from there as well."

Barton muttered something under his breath that Phil didn't quite catch. It sounded suspiciously like something along the lines of 'handling my ass'.

"Sorry, what did you say? I didn't quite catch that."

Barton straightened up and glowered at him.

"Nothing that concerns you; _handler_."

Phil raised an eyebrow, even as his heart sunk at the venom in those words.

"Really? You mean whatever you said has nothing to do with the current conversation?"

Barton continued to glower at him.

"Nothing to do with it at all. I'm just talking to myself."

Barton's smug expression as he said that made Phil's headache come out in full force.

"If that was the case; then, technically, I shouldn't have heard you speak."

Barton's smug expression disappeared faster than it had come on and he was back to glaring. Phil decided that enough was enough, and made a shooing motion with his hands.

"Go and pack Barton, and take this file with you. I want you to memorise the information so that you'll know all the details by heart. I'll be testing you on your knowledge of the mission file later, so make sure that you pay attention. It is good practice for when you will be given real missions, and expected to remember every detail about your target."

Barton's muttering was a lot softer this time, but he took the file nonetheless and stalked out of the room. He did not quite slam the door behind him, but it was a close thing.

Left alone in his office, Phil sighed as his head dropped onto his desk with a dull thud.

He had a horrible, sinking feeling that this was going to end in disaster.

* * *

Clint was annoyed.

And bored.

But mostly annoyed.

He was lying on a tree branch, where he had a good view of the road that his target vehicle would be coming along sometime today. He had his paintball rifle set up and ready, and now there was nothing to do but wait.

(Though seriously, _paintballs_. He was expected to take this whole thing seriously when he was using _paintballs_. Clint actually liked paintballs, a lot, but he still couldn't quite believe that SHIELD would use something so juvenile for training their agents. Sure, there weren't a lot of options for non-lethal weaponry, but Clint would have thought an organisation as big as SHIELD would have figured something slightly less predictable out by now. Just goes to show that they weren't invincible.)

Still, that didn't change the fact that he could do nothing but lie there, freezing his ass off, as he waited for his target to arrive.

And waited.

And waited.

Still waiting.

Now, Clint could lie still for hours without so much as twitching when the situation called for it. It came partially from being a trained sniper and experienced assassin, and partially from spending a large part of his life hiding from people who wanted to hurt him. However, it was only March, and they were in a forest close to the borders of Canada. Those factors combined meant that it was cold.

Very cold.

Not as cold as Russia in January was, thankfully. But it was still bloody cold nonetheless.

And if there was one thing that Clint loathed with every fibre of his being, it was the cold. It brought back too many unpleasant memories from his childhood and was inclined to make his body ache.

Even with the top of the line winter gear that SHIELD had provided him with, he still couldn't feel his toes. Also, his nose had gone numb some time ago and wouldn't stop running.

It was driving him insane.

There was also snow everywhere.

That was something he'd only found out yesterday, when they'd arrived at the safe house located at the edge of the forest. On arrival, they had been greeted by a white winter wonderland.

At least, that was what most people would see. However, to Clint the snow just meant that he would more than likely end up both cold _and_ wet.

His predictions had proved correct. Well, partially correct at least.

Thankfully he wasn't too cold right now, but he was wetter than was strictly comfortable. From prior experience, Clint knew that it would only be a matter of time before the cold started seeping through the layers of clothing that he was wearing.

That fact did nothing to help Clint's current mood. And he was making sure that Coulson was well aware of that fact.

"Overwatch, I'm freezing my ass off here. How much longer until they turn up?"

His handler's reply was bland.

"They'll be along sometime today."

Clint groaned dramatically.

"I'm so bored that I'm almost asleep here. Absolutely nothing is happening Overwatch."

"Keep your mind on the job Barton. They'll be here sooner or later."

"That's easy for you to say, you're not the one laying out here on a tree branch in the freezing cold. You're back at the safe house with the heating turned to high and a hot drink. Mine is practically lukewarm."

"Those canteens are capable of keeping their content hot for up to five hours, so I highly doubt that is the case. You've only been out there for about two."

"Only two hours?" Clint whined. "It feels like I've been out here for much longer than that."

His handler didn't bother to reply.

But, more annoying for Clint, was the fact that Coulson was right about the canteens. These SHIELD-issued canteens kept their contents hotter than a conventional canteen did. Before Clint had left the safe house this morning, Coulson had filled one of them with piping hot chocolate, and instructed Clint to take it with him. Coulson had said that he was to take sips at regular intervals to help him stay warm.

Clint had almost resisted. He deeply resented Coulson's constant interference in his life to make sure he ate enough and rested regularly. His resentment was partially because he didn't know how to take it. No one had ever cared about him enough before now to make sure that he was comfortable beyond the basics.

Clint still hadn't been able to figure out why the Agent was putting all this time and effort into him, and consequently he still didn't know how to respond to it. But, the bigger problem with Coulson's fussing, was that Clint was starting to panic.

In spite of having been with SHIELD for heading on five months now, Clint was still subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop. He still didn't quite believe what Fury and Coulson had both told him back in the beginning. Clint couldn't wrap his head around the fact they were giving him all this, and in return all he was expected to do was to use his skills for the benefit of the organisation.

It seemed too easy.

And, in Clint Barton's life if something seemed to good and easy to be true, then it generally was.

It was partially because of his unease that Clint had not shut up for the full two hours he'd been waiting. In spite of being told to focus on the job at hand several times, Clint had ceaselessly chattered on about nothing in particular, trying to get a rise out of Coulson.

Clint didn't know how his _handler_ hadn't snapped yet. Clint had been running his mouth ceaselessly ever since he'd left Coulson back at the safe house.

Coulson's seemingly unflappable nature had passed been merely annoying ages ago, and was now onto _infuriating_.

Clint was getting to the point where he needed Coulson to snap or he would. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could handle.

Clint was fairly certain that Coulson was unaware of how close to his breaking point Clint actually was. If there was one thing that Clint was a master at, besides killing people, it was hiding his real emotions and feelings from those around him.

And Clint was extra careful to keep his mask in place around the Agent.

Especially after what had happened last week. A combination of exhaustion and stress had resulted in Clint's iron-clad control slipping. Consequently, Coulson had seen a side of him that he'd never shown to _anyone_.

It had freaked Clint out big time. So, he'd done what he'd always done when he was overwhelmed and out of his depth. He'd run away from whatever had overwhelmed him.

And later, once Clint had calmed down, he'd responded to the situation in the only way he knew how.

By ignoring what had happened.

For as long as he could remember, that had been his default response. No matter what the situation was. Clint buried his real feelings deep inside him in a box with all his other emotions, and tried not to think about them. He was worried he would freak out again if he did.

In spite of telling himself this was the only thing he could do to cope, Clint couldn't help but feel guilty for what he was putting Coulson through. However, there was no way that Clint was about to just shut up and do what he was told. He'd never done that in his life (he could show you documented proof) and he didn't plan on starting now.

Even if the man in question really didn't deserve all the snark, sarcasm and sass that Clint was constantly giving him.

* * *

"Keep your mind on the job Barton. They'll be here soon."

Phil felt like face palming as his asset kept complaining, this time about the canteen Phil had given him before he'd left the safe house. His complaints were very petty, and obviously designed to get a rise out of Phil. The Agent knew for a fact that the contents of the canteen would still be warm. He'd used those canteens himself on numerous occasions, and so spoke from personal experience. He had been stunned at just how good they were at keeping drinks hot.

Barton hadn't said much on the trip up here. As soon as they had arrived at the safe house yesterday, that had changed rather rapidly. Barton had spent several hours last night, while they should have been planning out what to do, arguing with Phil about the best way to complete the mission objective. The agent-in-training was all for shooting the tyres of the vehicle to get it to stop, and then taking out all the goons. Phil had put a damper on that plan quickly, as it was a very bad one. Phil had simply reminded Barton that they wanted the vehicle functional at the end.

It was just the driver and guards that they wanted gone. The objective of their mission was to secure the vehicle and its cargo by neutralising any who would protest to them doing that. Plus, snow was inclined to be slippery. Even though they had made this mission as safe as they possibly could, there was still an element of risk involved. They didn't want the vehicle to go sliding out of control or get damaged; they wanted it to be in good condition so that they could drive it away afterwards.

Not that they were going to do that themselves. There was a team of agents on standby to deal with the clean-up once Barton had fulfilled his objective of securing the vehicle.

An agent's first official training mission didn't normally take place in these conditions, and Phil wasn't entirely happy about it happening. If it wasn't for the fact that Barton already had real-life experience, Phil would definitely have put his foot down and taken him somewhere where the conditions were better. But Barton was virtually stuck with his training; they couldn't really go any further until they tested what he already knew.

And the only way to do that was to take him on a practice mission.

It was just Phil's luck that they had to use this compound to do it, courtesy of the Council, and that it was the beginning of March. Though the worst of winter was over, there was still snow on the ground. It was also still very cold.

Barton's voice broke through Phil's thoughts as his chatter started off in a new direction.

"Why does SHIELD use something as juvenile as paintballs for their training missions? I mean seriously, _paintballs_. I would have thought that an organisation as mighty as the great SHIELD would have thought up something less predictable by now."

"Have you ever heard the saying, 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' Barton?"

"But what if it does break? And there is still no sign of the target and I am getting colder and wetter by the minute."

"Well, to keep your mind off the cold; why don't you run through the plan again Barton? Just to make sure that we are on the same page."

The bored sigh that greeted Phil's words wasn't unexpected. The equally bored voice also wasn't a surprise. Phil had to remind himself to keep calm and not let his frustrations show, as that would no doubt make Barton behave worse.

"I wait in a tree until I see the vehicle that we want and then shoot anyone but the driver; to make sure that he has time to stop the car so it doesn't go skidding out of control. I then keep shooting until everyone, including the driver, is taken care of; while making sure that I keep the vehicle functional. It's a job so easy that I could do it in my sleep. Especially as I'm using a _paintball rifle_."

"What have paintballs done to you?"

There was silence over the comms for a few moments. Phil mentally gave himself a pat on the back for shutting up Hawkeye. The blessed silence was over all too soon.

"What makes you think that they have done something to me?"

"The way you are talking..."

Phil never got to finish his sentence, as Barton suddenly interrupted him.

"Overwatch, I have eyes on target. Ready to shoot when you give the word."

Phil blinked. The sudden professionalism in Barton's voice was a surprise. But even more surprising, was the fact that his asset had gone from whining and complaining one second, to completely focussing on the job at hand the next.

"Okay. You know the plan, so fire when you are ready. Just remember, we want the vehicle functional enough to drive away."

"You've already said that. I heard you the first time."

"I was just making sure..."

Phil never got to finish that sentence. He wasn't sure why it happened, but Barton suddenly snapped.

"Will you stop treating me like I'm a **** retardant? I might have to wear hearing aids, but that doesn't mean that I didn't hear you the first time!"

Phil was so a taken back at the venom and hatred in his assets voice that he said the first thing that came to his mind.

"I don't mean to imply that at all Barton. I just want to make sure that we are on the same page so that I can do whatever is in my power to help you. I..."

Phil found out less than a second later that that had been the wrong thing to say.

"Will you stop pretending that you care already? I've had enough of the lies and pretending. I'm your job; I get that. You are being paid to do all these things, so stop telling me that you are doing this because you _care_!"

Phil just sat there in the safe house, mouth agape. The archer sounded like he was close to tears. Before Phil could say anything in reply, Barton continued to rant at him over the comm.

"No one cares about me! No one has ever cared; because I'm not worth caring about! So don't pretend that you do! I know that it is a lie!"

Phil tried again.

"It's not..."

Barton wasn't listening.

"And I don't need a handler either! I can take care of myself just fine, and I also don't need someone telling me how best to kill someone. I'm more than capable of doing that on my own just fine as well!"

Phil's heart literally did drop into his boots at hearing those words from Barton's mouth.

"Barton, please just listen..."

"SHUT UP! I've had enough of listening. I don't need a handler to complete this stupid little exercise."

Phil suddenly felt panicky.

"No, Barton don't...!"

A sudden screeching sound in Phil's ear made him yank the headphones off and massage around his ear until it stopped ringing. What he'd feared would happen, had just happened.

Barton had taken the hearing aid that housed the built in comm unit out.

In spite of the fact that he was now half deaf, as he couldn't hear properly without them.

He was also on his own out there. Phil had no other way of reaching him. All he could do was wait until Barton came back on comms, or finished the mission. Then Phil would have a few choice things to say to him. Going off comms when you hadn't been explicitly ordered to was one of the worst things that a SHIELD agent could do. It broke every protocol in the book and then some.

Also worrying was what the archer had said just before he broke off communication. Phil knew Barton had bucket loads of trust and self-worth issues, but hearing the archer say that he wasn't worth anything cut Phil really deep. It was yet another issue that he would have to address with Barton later.

As he waited to hear back from Barton, Phil tapped his fingers nervously on the desk, and prayed that the archer didn't get himself thrown out of SHIELD for pulling this stunt.

* * *

Clint focused on the vehicle coming along the track below him, even as he quickly counting how many people he had to take out. There were two in the front and five riding in the back. All but the driver were armed, and on the lookout for trouble.

Well, Clint was about to give them some.

Trying to ignore his smouldering anger towards Coulson wasn't easy, but Clint was able to push it aside for long enough to focus on the job at hand. He was an expert at compartmentalisation after all. Deciding to take out the passenger first, Clint lined up his shot and pulled the trigger. The passenger jerked in surprise before dropping dead, even as red paint splattered over the driver. Clint didn't stop, and had taken out another guard, before the vehicle came to a shuddering standstill in the middle of the road.

The other guards in the back were on the alert now. They were looking around, weapons at the ready, as they tried to identify where the shots that had killed their comrades had come from. But Clint was well hidden in shadows up in his tree, and no one saw him.

It wasn't until he shot the driver that one of them was able to pinpoint his location and return fire. They obviously couldn't see him, as the shot went wide, but it was still too close for comfort.

Clint realised, belatedly, that he probably should have left the driver till last. He didn't appear to be armed, and Clint silently cursed his own stupidity. He risked taking out another guard before he changed locations, as then they would certainly see him. As a result, the next paintball they fired hit the tree trunk a matter of ten centimetres above his head, splattering him in green paint.

Even if it had been a real weapon, it was nothing life threatening. It wasn't even enough to slow Clint down. But it was definitely time to change locations if he didn't want to end up covered in paint.

If that happened, then he would have failed the mission.

That was something he didn't intend to do if he could help it.

Clint slung the rifle over his shoulder and tried to move in rhythm with the tree's branches so that he wouldn't be easily seen. For a moment, he thought that it had worked. Then a shout, and a paintball whizzing past his good ear, let him know that they'd seen him. Abandoning all attempts at stealth, Clint rapidly climbed around the back of the tree.

Once he was out of their direct line of sight, Clint deliberated over what he was going to do.

If he had his bow things would be easier. A bow was more flexible then a rifle was; as a result, Clint could make more difficult shots with one. The rifle was too heavy and clumsy to make trick shots with in these conditions. Clint peered around the tree, and noticed that two of the remaining three guards were coming towards his position. The other one was standing guard over the vehicle and its cargo, weapon at the ready as he watched his teammates advance towards Clint's location.

Clint carefully stood up, and measured the distance to the next tree over with a narrowed eye. Deciding that he could make the jump, and that that branch looked sturdy enough to hold his weight, Clint took a steady breath and let it out as he ran along the branch he'd been balancing on and jumped into space. There was dead silence for a few moments as he went into free fall, before he crashed into the next tree with a tremendous noise, and much less grace than he normally possessed.

Clint crashed through several branches before he was able to catch hold of one and stop his headlong fall. Ignoring his aching arm muscles, Clint pulled himself up onto the branch, before he looked around to see where his targets were. They had to have heard him, even if they hadn't pinpointed his exact location yet.

As luck would have it, the one still at the vehicle was perfectly positioned for Clint to take him out. Even better, he hadn't appeared to have seen Clint yet. Clint was quick in making sure that he didn't have a chance to.

As Clint turned around to have another look for the other two, his left foot slipped on the icy branch. He would have fallen out of the tree if he hadn't thrown his hands out to save himself, and managed to get a solid grip on another branch further down the tree. Though he managed to save himself from having an untimely collision with the ground, Clint had to let go of his rifle. It went spinning merrily away from him, and hit the ground a good twenty metres below with a muffled thump.

Clint had to fight down the panic he felt upon realised that he was weapon-less, and there were still two hostiles to take down.

Panicking in this situation would be a big mistake, and a very rookie one at that.

Clint was a professional. He could totally handle this.

Clint managed to ignore the voice in his head that told him that if he'd left the comm in, not only would he have his full hearing range but he'd also have Coulson's calm voice in his ear to help him.

He didn't need help.

At least that was what Clint kept telling himself. He was proved wrong less than a minute later, when he realised that the two remaining guards were slowly advancing on his position. They were keeping out of his direct line of sight, but steadily closing in on him.

Clint knew that if he didn't do something soon, he was royally screwed.

So, he did the only thing he could do.

Clint's hands fumbled slightly as he pulled the hearing aid out of his pocket and put it back in. Clint then took a steady breath to try and calm his nerves, before he turned the comm function back on.

"Overwatch?"

* * *

As soon as he heard Barton's voice, relief swept through Phil. It was short lived however. Before Phil could say anything, Barton was speaking.

"Overwatch, are you there? I need help."

"Hawkeye, Overwatch here. What on earth has happened?"

"I've lost my weapon and they are closing in. I don't know what to do."

Even though it was only a practice mission, and his asset wasn't in danger of being killed, Phil immediately went into crisis handling mode.

"Where are you now?"

"About twenty metres up a tree located to the left of the one I was in before. My rifle is on the ground about twenty metres below. Two hostiles remain, and they are verging on my location as we speak. I can't see them but I know they are around."

The slight tremor in his assets voice as he said those last words wasn't lost on Phil, and led him to a startling realisation. While the archer might be tough and independent and more skilled than over half the agents in SHIELD; when it came down to it, he wasn't much more than a kid. A kid who had been hurt and betrayed so many times by those he'd trusted that he was afraid to trust anymore for fear of what it might cost him.

It was with that realisation, that Phil knew what he had to do here.

"Okay. Can you get to your weapon without putting yourself in harm's way?"

After a few seconds Barton answered him.

"I think so. I can't guarantee where the hostiles are though."

"Go. But be careful. And leave the comm open."

Phil listened to the raspy sound of Barton's breathing as he climbed down the tree. A sudden gasp of pain sent Phil into a panic.

"What's happened? Barton? Talk to me!"

"One of the bastards shot at me when I was about five metres above the ground. I fell the rest of the way. They didn't actually hit me, and I don't think anything's broken. I've got my rifle back now. But I can't see anything from where I am."

"Can you see anything that you can hide behind? A rocky outcrop or a fallen tree? You have to move Barton. You can't stay there."

"Yeh, believe me I know that. There is a tree, but it's pretty exposed. Hang on, there is a rocky outcrop about ten metres away. I don't know if I can make it there without been seen though."

Before Phil could respond to that Barton cursed.

"Make that definitely can't get to it without been seen. They've found me. The only reason they aren't shooting at me is because I'm out of their direct line-of-sight in a bit of a hollow."

"You can do this Barton. Stay calm and follow your instincts. I'm not going anywhere. If you can't outshoot them, you'll just have to outsmart them."

"How?"

"They can't shoot someone who doesn't stay still, and we haven't been practicing advanced hand-to-hand combat for the last month and a half for nothing."

After a moment of silence, Barton spoke.

"You're right. Dodge and run it is."

Phil managed to resist telling Barton to be careful this time. It wasn't easy, but this was progress. Phil did not want to jeopardise that.

"Go then, and let me know if you run into difficulties."

"Okay."

What followed was an anxious few minutes of waiting for Phil, while his asset did who knows what on the other end of his comm. A sharp gasp of pain had Phil's panic spiking.

"Barton, what's wrong? Talk to me!"

"Mission accomplished. All hostiles have been taken care of."

"Why did you gasp in pain?"

There was silence for so long, that Phil actually began to wonder if Barton was still on comms.

"I might have twisted my ankle. I slipped on a patch of ice and went down pretty hard."

"Are you mobile? Do you have any broken bones?"

The muffled gasp that came over the comms a moment later was quickly followed by Barton's voice.

"I don't think anything's broken. I'm vertical, and I can make it back to the safe house. See you soon."

In spite of the fact that all Phil's instincts were screaming at him to go and meet Barton himself, Phil managed to resist them. Codling Barton too much, he'd already learnt today, did not end well.

"Okay. Preliminary reports from the agents on site indicate that you were successful in completing the mission objective. However, you and I are having a serious talk about protocol and what it means later."

"I can't wait."

The sarcasm and disdain that was back in Barton's voice didn't surprise Phil in the slightest. Barton was a fighter and survivor. He wasn't the sort to show weakness very often, but for a few brief minutes he'd shown it to Phil. It wasn't the least surprising that Barton would try to ignore what had happened. It seemed to be his default response to any situation that he didn't feel comfortable with.

But they were definitely having that conversation as soon as Barton got back.

* * *

"It was a stupid thing to do."

Phil stared at Barton as he spoke. The young assassin looked away and steadfastly refused to meet Phil's gaze, instead studying the wall to his right with great interest. His shoulders had hunched defensively, and he'd sunk further into his chair, as Phil had lectured him.

In spite of that, the archer didn't seem the least apologetic for his actions.

Defensive, definitely.

Apologetic, definitely not.

As soon as the agent-in-training had arrived back at the safe house half an hour ago, Phil had given him a lecture on how bad going off comms was. He was almost finished lecturing Barton now. Phil seriously hoped that he'd gotten through to the kid the seriousness of what he'd done.

"Pulling a stunt like that is enough to have you thrown out of SHIELD, if certain people ever find out."

"Will they?"

It was the first thing Barton had said since Phil had started his lecture. The boy sounded and looked very apprehensive as he said it. So he should, Phil thought, after pulling a stunt like that and worrying Phil half to death.

"That remains to be seen. The comms weren't monitored or recorded as this was just a training mission. It will come down to what I put in my report. And I haven't decided what I'll write yet. It will depend on your behaviour for the remainder of this mission."

"I thought it was done?"

"The actual mission part is. We still have to drive back to base however, and won't leave until tomorrow morning."

Barton looked confused.

"Why not now?"

"If we leave now, it will be dark long before we get back to base. It makes more sense to stay the night here, and go back in the morning."

Barton didn't respond to that. Instead he shifted in his seat and immediately winced. He was quick to try and hide it, but Phil had already noticed.

"How injured are you Barton? And don't lie and say you are fine. If you lie about injuries, and I later find out, then I will ban you from using the range for a month. This is the only warning that you get. So, how badly are you hurt?"

There was silence for a few moments. Phil waited with his hands on his hips and his lips thinned for Barton to speak. Surprisingly, he didn't have to wait long.

"My left ankle is sore, and my ribs are really bruised. Not that bruises are anything new."

"Can you walk?"

Barton nodded and stood up. However, as soon as he tried to put his weight on his left ankle it crumbled under him. With an undignified yelp he fell back into the chair. He landed on his right side, which elicited another hiss of pain from the archer.

Phil was already kneeling in front of him and untying his boot lace. Barton tried to remove his foot from Phil's grasp, but Phil wasn't about to let it go. He held onto it and glared daggers at Barton.

"What did I say about lying about injuries Barton?"

The archer stopped trying to get away at that, and allowed Phil to remove his boot.

Phil's triumph was short lived.

As soon as the boot and sock were removed, Phil could see that Barton's ankle was very swollen. Phil touched it gently, and was immediately greeted with a hiss of pain and an angry glare, even as the foot was yanked out of his reach.

"What the hell Coulson? That hurt!"

"You said that you _might_ have _twisted_ your ankle. Not sprained it!"

"Twist, sprain, what's the difference?"

"A sprain takes longer to heal, and requires more attention and rest, than a twist does. You walked back here on this?"

It was a theoretical question. They both knew that he had. Rather than saying something that he would regret later, Phil just got up and went to the freezer. He removed a couple of icepacks, which he then brought back to Barton.

On closer inspection, it was revealed that Barton's ankle was not only swollen but that he could hardly move it. After securely binding the icepacks on using some bandages, Phil made a decision.

"I've changed my mind. We are going back to base right now. I want medical to look at your ankle. I'm not sure that nothing is broken."

"It's not."

"I'm sure you'll understand why, in light of recent self-diagnosis, I am going to ignore your opinion of how badly you are or aren't injured completely. We are going back to base. You are going to let medical check you out and not lie about injuries. No arguments. Remember, I still have to write that report on this training mission."

Phil didn't intend to put Barton's little unauthorised escapade into his report, and knew it was mean to use that to bargain with. However, he'd had enough of Barton's shit for one day. If he had to threaten the boy to get him to pay attention to his personal safety and wellbeing for once, then Phil would do it and feel no remorse. Even the flash of fear in Barton's eyes that he couldn't hide was ignored. Phil had simply had enough.

"I'll get our bags and put them in the car. Don't you dare move until I come back to help you. You've done more than enough by walking back here on a potentially broken ankle."

* * *

"He's sprained his left ankle, bruised his right ribcage pretty badly, and managed to accumulate an impressive number of scratches on his face and bruises all over the rest of his body. On top of that, his shoulder muscles and arms will probably be sore for a few days. It's nothing serious, but I wouldn't recommend that he use his bow for a week or two to give them time to rest. It certainly won't hurt."

Phil frowned as the doctor filled him in on Barton's injuries. When he finished reading the report, Phil looked up.

"So he has to take it easy for a few weeks then?"

The doctor, whose name tag read 'Walters', nodded.

"Yes, very easy. Nothing is broken, but his ankle will be sore for a couple of weeks at the very least, and he should keep weight off it as much as possible to assist the healing process. His scratches and bruises should heal up in a week or so. Same with the muscle stress."

Phil nodded.

"Okay. So, can I take him with me now? Or do you want to keep him in for observation?"

Walters shook his head.

"There's no reason to keep him in. If you want to take responsibility for him, then I'll happily release him to you. Just make sure that he takes it easy."

"I'll see that he does. Where is he?"

"In a private examination room just down the hall. I'll show you."

Walters led Phil to a closed door that was identical to those around it. Walters knocked twice, calling Barton's name. After waiting a minute or so and receiving no response he pushed the door open and went in.

"Barton, Coulson is here to take you off my hands. Now, makes sure that you rest..."

The doctor's voice suddenly trailed off.

"Barton?"

Phil rushed in. The examination bed was empty, and a quick glance around the room revealed the only people in it were Phil and the doctor.

Barton was gone.

* * *

 **End of chapter 4.**

* * *

 **Anyone want to hazard a guess as to where Clint has gone? Or why he's gone? All will be revealed in the next chapter, so make sure to tune in again in a couple of days to find out the answers!**


	5. I would stop running

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **Finally, I can breath again. I now have three weeks of holidays, and it is the best feeling. In my absence, this story has attracted a bit of attention, including several follows and favourites. Also, big thanks goes to Rebel-Keiki for leaving feedback** **while this story was on hiatus!**

 **Now that I am posting again, please people, let me know if you are enjoying this. I'm not asking for everyone to review every chapter (though that would be nice) but at least one review per person reading this would be nice. It would also motivate me to post faster! (hint, hint:)**

 **As usual, Freeranger and** **Jaguarspot** **were both invaluable in their own way with helping me to make this story happen.**

 **Without further ado, enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

I never found anyone who was good enough, who I could trust enough. _Christine Keeler_

* * *

 **Chapter 5: I would stop running**

Walters turned to Phil with a shocked look on his face.

"He was here five minutes ago, I swear. Where could he have gone in that time? I was watching the hall outside from my station at the end the whole time! And he can barely stand either! How could he walk anywhere?"

Phil ignored the doctor's ramblings; instead he focused on examining the room. Seeing nothing in it to indicate where the archer could have gone, Phil went into the small attached bathroom. A few minutes later, after a thorough search of the space, Phil knew exactly where his archer had disappeared to.

"Walters, would you come here a minute?"

When Walters joined him, Phil pointed to the ceiling of the small supply closet tucked away in a corner of the bathroom.

"Tell me what you see please."

The doctor frowned.

"The roof?"

"Try again."

The doctor peered intently at the roof for several moments before trying again.

"An air vent cover?"

Phil nodded.

"Exactly. Barton could be anywhere by now, so I'd better start looking. When I find him, I'll bring him back here so that we can process his discharge papers."

Walters just blinked.

"Okay. I think. Wait, you're telling me he went _into the roof_?"

Phil left Walters squawking with indignation in the medical wing, and headed towards his office to think. He knew that Barton had escaped into the vent system. After what he'd witnessed just over a week ago, and the fact that Barton could apparently disappear for hours on end, Phil was starting to get a suspicion the archer practically _lived_ in them.

Where was he right now though? Technically, Barton should still be in medical, seeing they hadn't cleared him to leave yet.

Having a sudden thought, Phil took a detour to check out Barton's assigned room before he headed back to his office. It was empty. Not that surprising really, but it had been worth checking it out nonetheless.

Once he was back in his office, Phil booted up his computer and pulled up the security footage from around the base. After establishing that Barton wasn't in any of the shooting ranges or gyms that were scattered around, Phil didn't know what to do. As he hadn't turned up on any surveillance videos, that could only mean that Barton was still in the vents somewhere. And they didn't have security cameras installed in the internal air vent system.

Maybe they should.

Phil was trying to think where the archer could possibly have gone. He thought back on what he'd learnt about Barton. The archer liked solitude, being up high, and annoying the shit out of people...

Wait.

Solitude.

Being up high.

Phil could have kicked himself. He suddenly bet he knew exactly where Barton was.

* * *

Phil advanced slowly on his runaway archer, who was sitting right on the edge of the roof of the SHIELD compound. To Phil's horror, the archer was only wearing a short-sleeved shirt and medical scrubs, and was shivering. He had his legs pulled up to his body, and was hugging his knees to his chest as he gazed into the night.

"Barton, what do you think that you are doing up here? You haven't even been cleared to leave medical! And why aren't you wearing something warmer? You'll catch your death out here!"

Barton flinched away as Phil removed his own suit jacket, and draped it over his asset's shoulders. Ignoring the archer's response to his presence, Phil sat down next to him on the roof.

Phil knew that he needed to get Barton back down to the warmth of medical ASAP. Before that however, he had to figure out why Barton would bolt in the first place. They didn't want a repeat performance. Sure, the archer didn't like medical. He'd made that obvious from day one. Still, this went beyond pure hatred and into stupidity.

And Phil knew that Barton was far from stupid.

Barton finally turned to look at him.

"So, they sent you to arrest me. Ironic. Or have you come to finish the job that you started in Tokyo?"

All Phil could do was stare at Barton in shock. It took him a moment to find his voice.

"What's that supposed to mean, Barton?"

"I'm injured, and have to take it easy for a few weeks. Therefore, I am of no use to you or SHIELD in the meantime. That, coupled with the fact that I disobeyed you and broke protocol on the mission, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what happens next. Do I get to take my things with me to prison, or are you going to confiscate those as well?"

It took Phil a while to figure out what Barton meant, and when he did he felt like he'd been kicked in the gut by a hippopotamus.

"Barton, I want you to look at me. Even if it's just for a second. Please."

It took a while, but Barton finally turned his gaze to look at Phil. Once he was sure that he had Barton's attention, Phil started speaking.

"No one here is going to toss you out of SHIELD, Barton."

Barton huddled further into Phil's jacket as a shiver went through him.

"Right. And you never said that my continued tenure with SHIELD depended on me listening to you. You've probably already reported me, and after seeing how injured I am, there is no way that SHIELD will want me around. All it will take is your report and I'll be back in prison, awaiting execution."

"I haven't had time to write a report yet Barton. And when I do you won't be thrown out of SHIELD. Why should you be? You passed the mission."

Clint blinked.

"But I broke protocol; left, right and centre. You can't just let that pass! What about your loyalty to SHIELD?"

Phil sighed.

"Don't repeat this, but more than once in my life I've found myself been more loyal to an agent or friend that I am to SHIELD. Yes, you broke protocol. Yes, you had me worried sick during the time we had no contact. I was worried and stressed when you got back, and I'm afraid that I took it out on you."

Clint looked at Phil in shock.

"You really were worried about me? It wasn't just an act?"

"Yes, I was genuinely worried. It might have only been a training mission, but I worry about any agent whom I am responsible for. Being a supervisor is hard Barton. There is a lot of responsibility resting on your shoulders, and people can be killed if you make even one mistake. It's not an easy job."

"You going off comms was my fault, and you refusing to talk to me is also my fault."

Clint blinked.

"How is that your fault? I'm the one who did it."

"True. But you obviously don't trust me enough to let me help you, which is on me, or maybe you just don't like me. Is that it Barton? Because if it is, I'm sure that we can arrange something so that you don't have to have any contact with me. Perhaps you want to go back to the Academy?"

That got a reaction out of the archer.

"Hell no, not happening. There is no way that I'm going back there. SHIELD can kick me out if they want to, because I am _not_ doing that again."

Phil sighed.

"For the last time, you are not being kicked out of SHIELD, Barton. Not for breaking protocol, though I would prefer that you don't pull a stunt like that ever again, and not for refusing to go back to the Academy."

"What about for being a dickhead and getting myself injured so that I'm no use to anyone until I heal?"

Phil felt the ghost of a smile forming as he answered.

"You will never be kicked out of SHIELD for being injured either. There is a lot that I can't promise you, Barton. But I can promise that so long as I am in SHIELD, then that won't happen. No matter how injured you get, or how long you have to rest up for, SHIELD doesn't toss agents out simply because they get injured and need some time off to recover."

"What about tossing me out for being a dickhead? How far can that go before SHIELD tires of me and my sass?"

Phil actually chuckled. Barton glared daggers at him for it, but for some reason that made Phil chuckle even more. He had to force himself to sober up, and even so there was still a slight smirk on his face when he felt composed enough to answer Barton's question.

"Barton, believe me, SHIELD has kept people on that aren't half as skilled as you are after they'd committed greater offenses than being an immature idiot. Providing that you want to stay, that isn't a valid reason for a termination of an agent's or an asset's contract."

Phil thought that a small smile might have crossed Barton's face at hearing that, but it was gone before he could be sure. Still, he had definitely seen some emotion. Before he could ponder it further, Barton spoke.

"In that case then yes, I want to stay here. And I want to keep you as a handler. You're the nicest one I've ever had."

"When have you had other handlers?"

"When I was in the army I had CO's, and then at the Academy I had supervisors. I never liked any of them."

Phil frowned at the sneer on Barton's face as he said that last bit.

"What did happen to you at the Academy, Barton? You came back a different person to the one who left, and no one has a clue why that is."

"I've told you before, the instructors were assholes. Their incompetence and lack of understanding almost drove me insane."

"Lack of understanding?"

"They had a very specific idea of how I should behave and what I should do. They tried to force me to conform to that. I don't conform to things. They weren't pleased."

Phil frowned.

"It would seem that standards there have definitely dropped in recent years. When I went there they were more than happy to work with recruits, not against them."

Barton shrugged.

"I wouldn't know about that. I just know that I didn't like it. There was a certain pattern set by the instructors that everyone was expected to conform to, and I firmly rebelled against them. I don't do authority."

"Believe me, I am well aware of that already. It would make life easier for both of us if you wouldn't be so demonstrative in your rebellion though."

Barton said nothing to that, and, as another shiver went through him, Phil remembered what he'd come up to the roof to do.

"Let's get you back down to medical so that they can check you out. You aren't supposed to have any weight on that ankle of yours, so I'll help you down. I know that you can do it yourself" Phil held up his hand and Barton, who was about to protest, stopped as Phil went on "but you've done quite enough getting up here. Please let me help you Barton. It's time that you started being sensible where looking after yourself is concerned. One of these days you will wind up with a permanent injury if you keep going the way that you are, and that's the last thing that we want."

Barton sighed and his shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry."

Phil blinked. That, he had not expected.

"Sorry for what?"

"For being an asshole to you from day one. You don't deserve it."

Barton looked up at Phil with a sincere expression.

"I can't promise that I won't be an asshole again as it's in my nature. But I can promise to try to be less of an asshole to you."

Phil was startled at the sincerity that the archer was bleeding. This was a side of Barton that he hadn't seen before, and it was very unexpected. Still, Phil was nothing if not adaptable.

"Okay. If you are prepared to do that Barton; then, in return, I will always try to work with you, not against you. You have some remarkable skills, and are cleverer than you give yourself credit for."

"Now, let's get you back down into the warmth. Seriously, what were you thinking, coming up here?"

"I wasn't."

"That does make a little more sense than the alternative."

Phil shook his head as held out his hand to help Barton get up. After a brief pause, the archer grasped it and allowed the older man to pull him to his feet. The archer hissed in pain as he stood up, which spiked Phil's worry yet again. However, the deeper significance of the action wasn't lost on Phil, and led him to a startled realisation.

They had more trust in place than he had realised. There was no way Barton would be letting Phil help him like this if he didn't trust him at least a little bit.

That thought was what gave Phil hope that this would all work out for the better in the end.

* * *

 _18-19_ _th_ _March, 1999._

Clint flinched awake suddenly, his mouth open in a silent scream as he sat bolt upright. It took several minutes for him to realise that he was holding his knife out in front of him like it was a shield, and that there was no one around.

He was alone in his room at the SHIELD base.

Clint dropped the knife onto the sheets like it had burnt him and just sat there, shaking uncontrollably. The nightmares from his contract days had been getting progressively worse over the last few weeks, to the point where he was almost afraid to close his eyes for fear of what he'd see. They hadn't been this bad since his first few weeks with SHIELD.

Surprisingly, the nightmares had settled down a bit when he was at the Academy. Though that could have something to do with the fact that Clint had slept in the air vents there, not sleeping in his allocated bunk once. He always slept better when he was either up high or in a vent, it made him feel safe. No one could hurt you if they couldn't find or reach you to begin with.

Plus, not being able to hear made him nervous. He couldn't very well sleep with his hearing aids in all the time. The audiologist had been quite firm on that one. He needed to take breaks from wearing them, or his ears could start causing problems.

It wasn't a fear of other people hurting him that was causing Clint's nightmares tonight however; it was the memories of what he'd done as a mercenary that were haunting him. The ways in which he'd hurt other people were what was keeping him awake. Clint was getting crystal clear images of what he'd done to hurt people. It was those memories that were slowly, but surely, destroying him.

Those memories were the reason that Clint was pushing himself so hard during the day, now that he was allowed to do light exercise again. He hoped that, if he were exhausted enough, he might get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before the nightmares kicked in. Two or so hours of sleep each night might be just enough to keep him going.

The nightmares themselves weren't anything new. Nightmares had always been a part of Clint's life, for as long as he could remember. Just like violence had been. One of his first memories was of what his father's fists felt like when they slammed into his body. It had become a very familiar feeling over the years, as more than one person used him as their personal punching bag. At least until he was big enough to fight back.

However, the memories of the pain and suffering he'd caused other people were worse than his memories of what people had done to him.

He'd had no control over that.

He did, however, have control over what he'd chosen to do.

He'd chosen to kill innocent people for money. It might not matter than many of them weren't innocent; enough of them were that the thought of it made Clint want to vomit. The few scumbags he'd taken out could never make up for the innocent lives he'd also taken. What SHIELD wanted him to do could never make up for those lives that he had ended for no other reason than he was being paid to end them.

No matter how much evil he eradicated, Clint couldn't shake off the feeling that he wasn't much better than a mafia boss or a drug lord. In fact, he was probably worse than those sorts of monsters. At least they knew what they were, and didn't pretend to be the good guys.

He, however, had killed people for money. He'd killed them, caring about nothing but the pay check he would receive at the end of the job.

He had red in his ledger that was the result of murdering countless people who didn't deserve it in cold blood.

He was really nothing but a cold-blooded murderer. By all rights he should have been killed a long time ago. He certainly didn't deserve SHIELD and Coulson.

Clint knew that he wouldn't be getting anymore sleep tonight. Fine tremors were still running through his hands, but he managed to reach over to his table and remove his hearing aids from their box. Clint carefully put them in, before he slipped out of bed and pulled on his leather jacket. He'd slept fully clothed every single night since coming to SHIELD, in spite of having nightclothes he'd never used them. Clint wasn't sure why, he just felt better if he was ready at all times. Ready for what he did not know, but old habits die hard.

Clint grabbed his bow and his quiver full of arrows and headed down to the range. As he moved through the SHIELD base, Clint stuck to camera blind spots as much as possible. Though he had full range access now, courtesy of Coulson, it was only valid for normal range operating hours.

And it was currently very much after hours.

Clint, however, couldn't care less that he was breaking the rules by going down there. Shooting his bow was one of the best ways he'd found of making himself forget what he had done. Pushing himself until he was almost ready to collapse from exhaustion was the only way he was able to keep the guilt and self-loathing from smothering him completely. Especially as it was becoming harder and harder to ignore what he'd done before Coulson had found him.

Coulson, the man who had given him a chance to turn his life around and do some good for a change.

Coulson, the man who was ensuring that he made the most of that chance and hadn't let him down yet.

Coulson, the man who had convinced Clint to stop running for perhaps the first time in his life.

Unfortunately, Clint did not know how to stop running from the demons that still haunted him.

He might have stopped running from other people, but Clint Barton hadn't yet stopped running from himself or his past.

* * *

 _A few hours later._

Phil set the electric kettle situated in his kitchenette to boil. He sighed softly to himself as he searched the cupboards to find his chamomile tea bags so he could make himself a cup of tea. There were definitely advantages to being a senior agent.

Phil had gone to bed at a decent hour last night; he'd been really tired. However, he had ended up tossing and turning for a couple of hours, unable to fall asleep. Eventually he'd dozed off, only to wake up less than an hour later. Phil had lain in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and thinking. He'd finally decided that he wasn't going to fall asleep again anytime soon. He wasn't the least bit tired anymore.

Phil honestly didn't know what was wrong with him tonight. He didn't normally have trouble sleeping. In fact, he was inclined to sleep like a log.

When he was in his own room at least.

When he was on a mission, he slept with one ear open.

Phil took a sip of his tea, and hummed with appreciation. In spite of drinking coffee to keep him going, Phil harboured a secret love of herbal teas. Unfortunately, in his stressful job, he often needed the caffeine to keep functioning. It was a shame, Phil though. Tea really was nicer.

Just then, a soft but very insistent knocking came on his door. With a sigh, Phil put his mug down and went to answer it.

It was probably Fury, so Phil didn't hurry too much. The director was fond of making late night visits to Phil's room. What he could want this time Phil couldn't fathom, but he opened the door nonetheless. You didn't keep the Director waiting for too long.

He was rather surprised when it wasn't Fury waiting outside, but a worried looking Wilkinson. As soon as the door opened, the range master started talking before Phil had time to even open his mouth.

"Coulson, you need to come down to the main range immediately. It's Barton. He's shooting his bow and looks to be on the verge of collapsing. You have to stop him before he hurts himself. I tried to stop him, and almost got shot for my efforts."

The words had hardly left Wilkinson's lips, but Phil was already on his way. Leaving the range master standing outside his apartment door, Phil ran down the corridor towards the lift. He had to wait for it to arrive at his level however, so Wilkinson was able to catch up to him. The two senior agents made the ride downstairs to the training levels in silence. Phil spoke first.

"How long has he been at it? Do you know?"

"Yes. I checked security feeds before I called you. He has been shooting since before one o' clock. At least two hours. And he doesn't look like he plans on stopping anytime soon."

They'd reached the right level by now, and Phil ran to the range door. Wilkinson followed at a much slower pace. The door to that room was closed and locked, but Phil entered his passcode and the access pad flashed green before the door popped open. Phil rushed in, but hesitated just inside the doorway for a moment as he took in Barton's appearance.

The archer was shooting as if his life depended on it. Even after being here for more than two hours, he was still hitting bullseyes, his posture perfect. However, as Phil watched the bow suddenly wavered in the archers hand and, for one heart stopping moment, Phil though that he was going to fall over. However, Barton managed to recover his balance and kept on going, doggedly shooting arrow after arrow.

Wilkinson was right. This had to stop right now. Barton was going to hurt himself if he kept this up. Phil realised then that the range master hadn't followed him into the range, and felt extremely grateful that Wilkinson was so intuitive.

This was something that he needed to do alone.

"Barton."

* * *

Clint felt the fatigue catch up to him when the bow wavered in his grip, but he managed not to drop it. Finding the blank calm that he desired by sheer force of will, Clint lifted the bow and, after a brief pause, went back to shooting. His fingers were cramped and his vision was starting to blur, but he couldn't stop.

As soon as he stopped, the nightmares would come back to him in full force. Clint couldn't face them anymore. He couldn't face anything anymore.

It had taken a long time, several years in fact, but Clint Barton had finally reached his breaking point.

He was quite literally falling apart. Focussing on shooting was currently the only thing that was keeping him together.

Clint didn't know how long he'd been there on the range, having lost himself in his shooting a long time ago. He didn't even realise that he was no longer alone, until he heard his name spoken.

"Barton."

Reacting purely on instinct, Clint drew another arrow. In one fluid motion, he had spun around, remaining perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, to aim it at whoever had said his name.

It took a few moments for Clint's exhausted brain to catch up with what he'd done. When it did, Clint realised he currently had an arrow pointed at Agent Coulson's head. His handler didn't seem at all bothered by the fact that, if Clint released the tension on the bowstring, he would be dead. Coulson had stopped moving as soon as Clint had pointed the arrow at him, and was calmly holding his hands away from his body to show that he wasn't a threat. Clint's exhausted brain struggled to register all this, even as his handler started speaking.

"Stand down Barton. It's just me. That is an order."

Before Clint could say anything in reply to that, his hands suddenly started shaking really badly, and he couldn't stop it. He dropped the bow and arrow a matter of moments before his whole body started trembling as fatigue and exhaustion finally caught up with him. Clint's head started spinning even as his legs crumbled under him and his vision blackened around the edges. Coulson reacted faster than Clint did, and had darted forward and caught him before he could hit the ground. Coulson then gently lowered him until he was sitting on the floor of the range.

Through the noise of blood pounding in his ears, Clint realised that his breathing also sounded very ragged. He hadn't realised before now, having been too focused on his shooting. Clint also found that he was very cold and couldn't stop trembling. Clint huddled into himself, and hugged his knees to his chest as he tried in vain to stop the tremors.

"What on earth Barton?"

Clint risked glancing up at Coulson, who was now kneeling next to him. Clint was surprised at seeing concern, not anger, written on his handlers face.

"Barton, what happened? Why would you do this to yourself?"

Clint just shook his head and curled into himself even more. He flinched when Coulson sat down next to him on the floor of the range, and placed a hand gently on his arm. He did nothing else however and, when Clint didn't object any further, he left his hand there. Clint had to admit it was actually comforting. Physical contact without the expectation of pain was not something that he was used to. But he still couldn't stop shaking, even though he wasn't cold. Coulson looked at him again with great concern.

"Barton, talk to me, come on. We've spoken about this before. I can't help you if you won't talk to me. What's wrong this time?"

Clint just shook his head as, to his horror; he felt tears threatening to fall. He tried to clamp down on them, but several escaped and he gave an involuntary sniff. Less than a second later, Coulson's head snapped up to look at his face.

Clint hastily averted his eyes.

Coulson sighed.

"Clint."

Clint jerked his head up at hearing his first name and looked at the agent. It was a long time since anyone had called him that. Heck, it had been a long time since anyone had even _known_ his birth name.

"Let's go to my office and sort this out. You are in no state to be by yourself right now and frankly, I am not leaving you alone tonight."

"Can you walk without my help? You aren't too steady on your feet."

Clint managed to nod, even as another tremor went through his body.

"Yyyess."

Clint was horrified to discover his teeth were chattering so much that he couldn't even speak properly. Coulson didn't say a word about it, just helped him to stand. Coulson kept a steadying hold on Clint's arm until he stopped swaying. Just as they were about to leave, Clint remembered something and stopped.

"My bow."

It was said very softly, but Coulson still heard him. The agent bent down and gently scooped up the bow from where it had been dropped on the floor. He handed it to Clint before wordlessly ushering him towards the door.

* * *

 **End of chapter 5.**

* * *

 **We are heading for a very big talk between Phil and Clint next chapter, even bigger than the one they have just had. Don't worry though, things will get better. Eventually.**

 **Reviews would be greatly appreciated and savoured!**


	6. If I knew there was a chance

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **Three guests, NerdGirl1210, Ren O'neil and Freeranger, thankyou for your reviews on the last chapter!** **I now know that this story is being read, which has motivated me to post the next chapter faster.**

 **Also, if anyone recognises the song that the chapter titles are from, let me know. The song really is so perfect for Clint.**

 **Jaguarspot and Freeranger, once again, were both invaluable in making this story better.**

 **Now let's get back to the action and see what Phil is going to do about Clint.**

* * *

It is impossible to go through life without trust. That is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself. _Graham Greene_

* * *

 **Chapter 6: If I knew there was a chance**

 _Friday 19_ _th_ _March; early morning; Phil's office; SHIELD's New York Base._

Phil regarded Clint with concern and more than a little bit of worry.

His young charge was curled up on the couch in Phil's office, wrapped in a thick blanket. Phil was currently trying to coax the archer into drinking some of the hot sweet tea Wilkinson had made for him on Phil's bequest. Tea, not coffee; Phil didn't want to give Barton caffeine in his current state. The archer had taken one small sip of the brew, before curling his hands around the Styrofoam cup, obviously seeking warmth from it. It was then that Phil noticed the tips of the fingers on the archer's left hand were bloody and torn.

"Barton; you weren't using your archery guards, were you?"

Barton hastily averted his eyes and looked away. His hands clenched tighter around the cup which bent alarmingly but, mercifully, didn't break.

Phil just sighed softly.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Predictably, he received no answer.

Phil silently got up and fetched some first aid supplies from the medical box in his office. All the senior agents had them located in their offices; it was mandatory. It was also mandatory that they all know how to use every single item that was in them.

Barton didn't move as Phil got what he needed. He did sip the tea though , which Phil counted as a win. Knowing the archer had a very sweet tooth; Phil had told Wilkinson to add three sugars. Phil knew that was a bit of an overload, but he was hoping that it would entice Clint to actually drink it. In his current state, Phil figured a sugar fix couldn't do him much harm.

Phil gently cleaned and bandaged Clint's torn fingertips. The archer didn't say anything while he was doing it, but watched him work very carefully. When he was finished, Phil sat down next to his young charge. The couch was more than big enough for two people to sit there quite comfortably without touching each other. Phil had made sure of that when he'd had it installed a few weeks ago, after the training mission.

"Barton. What is going on in that head of yours that you would do this? It's unnecessary and only hurts you."

As he said those words, a feeling of dread overcame Phil. As a result, his next words were sharper than he intended them to be.

"That isn't your objective here, is it Barton? You aren't deliberately punishing yourself by doing this, are you?"

Barton flinched hard at Phil's words. The tea in the cup sloshed alarmingly.

"No. Yes. I don't know. Maybe."

Phil looked at him with even greater concern, and more than a little desperation.

"Why? Why do this to yourself? Come on Barton; tell me so that I can help you."

"No one can help me."

Phil blinked. At least he was getting a verbal response now.

This was progress.

"I beg to differ. However, you have to tell me what is wrong before I can help you fix it."

"Even if you knew what was wrong that doesn't mean that you could help me. No one can."

"Let me tell you right now, that I don't intend to give up on you Barton. Something is bothering you, and I intend to find out what it is. It is my job as your handler, and let me tell you that I can be extremely stubborn when I want to be. If I have to sit here all night to get to the bottom of what is making you do this to yourself, I will. Whether you think that I can help you or not, I intended to at least try. And I can't even try if you won't tell me what's wrong. So come on, talk to me, Barton. What's wrong?"

Barton looked at him briefly, his expression shuttered, before he looked away again.

Phil waited patiently.

A few minutes passed like that. Suddenly, Barton turned around and looked at Phil again. The prominent fear and barely concealed hope that was clearly evident in his eyes shocked Phil. He'd never seen the cocky and confident archer display emotions that raw; he looked like he was on the verge of breaking apart under Phil's very eyes.

"Do you know what it's like to not even be able to close your eyes for fear of what you'll see? And do you have any idea how much worse it is when you are the cause of what you see?"

Phil swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat at hearing the hopelessness behind Clint's words.

Yes, Phil did know what it was like to be responsible for lives lost. You didn't get to where he was in SHIELD, without having at least some innocent blood on your hands. Whether it was unintentional or intentional often didn't matter, as far as guilt was concerned anyway.

"Yes. I think that I do know something about that."

Clint looked at him with an expression that was so hopeless and lost that it almost broke Phil's poor heart yet again.

As this rate, the kid was going to give him a heart attack before the end of the nights.

"How does it not destroy you?"

Phil tried to formulate an answer to that, while keeping his own turbulent emotions in check. This wasn't about him, it was about Barton.

"It's not easy, and I don't really have an answer for you right now. I'm still navigating through my own guilt about past actions."

Clint frowned as he looked at Phil properly.

"You have guilt?"

Phil had to swallow again and take a calming breath before he trusted himself to speak without his voice trembling.

"Yes, Barton. I harbour a lot of guilt over many things. Sometimes it has kept me awake at night. When I was a young agent, I used to go over and over the scenario in my head, trying to figure out a way in which I could have saved those people, some way that I could have stopped the bad things from happening. However, sometimes you have to accept that there simply isn't one."

Clint nodded mutely as he listened, pulling the blanket closer around him as Phil continued speaking.

"I've killed a lot of people in my time Barton. Both since I've been with SHIELD, and before that. We are soldiers, assassins and spies, Barton. We often have to make the difficult choices to keep millions of innocent lives safe. Most of the time, people don't know what we do, as those we save don't even realise that they were in danger. Often good and loyal agents, or innocent bystanders, get caught in the cross-fire; and die or are killed. There is nothing we can do but compartmentalise it and move on. The life of a SHIELD agent is not easy in any sense. But we survive the guilt by knowing that what we do, we ultimately do for the greater good."

Clint looked away.

"What about things that happen before SHIELD? How do you live with things that you did, decisions that you made, that hurt so many people who didn't deserve it?"

Ah, thought Phil. He had a feeling he'd just uncovered the root of Barton's issues.

It actually wasn't that surprising that the young assassin harboured a lot of guilt about his past actions. Phil had realised some time ago that his don't-care attitude, and constant anger, were masking his true feelings. What was surprising was that it had taken this long to become a big problem.

The kid had been a mercenary for a year and a half after leaving the army in less than ideal circumstances. During that time, he'd killed many people. SHIELD knew about just over one hundred of his kills, but Phil didn't doubt that there were many others that they had no idea about. Phil also knew that several people on the list of confirmed kills had been innocent of any wrongdoing.

However, Barton had only been doing what he had to do to survive. Phil highly doubted the archer had deliberately set out to make a career out of killing people. All signs pointed to him falling into this life as a means to survive, and then not being able to climb out on his own.

In spite of the current circumstances, Phil was actually encouraged by the fact that Barton felt guilt over what he'd done while working as a hit man. It meant that Phil had been right with what he'd initially told Fury.

There was some good left in the kid. In spite of what he'd done in the past, he hadn't completely lost his humanity. He hadn't gone so far to the dark side as to be irredeemable.

This only proved that.

There was one big question that remained, however. Could Barton learn to live with the guilt of his past deeds, and accept what he'd done as having been necessary to his survival?

Phil did not know the answer to that particular question.

He did, however, know that he was going to do his uttermost to help Barton come to terms with his past. Phil doubted the guilt the young archer carried would ever go completely. But he hoped, with time, that Barton would be able to learn to live with it.

Like they all did, and continued to do every single day.

Phil looked back at Clint, who was looking at him with an expression that was so lost and broken that it broke Phil's poor heart all over again.

This kid was seriously going to be the death of him.

"Barton. The only answer I can give you to that question, is that you have to learn to live with the guilt. You have to work on not letting it pull you down, so that you can move on with your life. You have the potential to do a lot of good in the world, a lot of good. I don't think you realise just how much potential to do good you have in you. It would be a shame to let your past ruin what the future could hold."

Barton seemed to be listening to everything Phil said; so, encouraged, the Agent continued talking.

"Throughout your career with SHIELD, you will undoubtedly have the opportunity to save countless lives; and make the world a better place to be. You will suffer and bleed for the safety of people who likely aren't even aware that you exist. That is the price we pay for doing what we do. Often, the knowledge that you are doing whatever you are to save their lives, will be the only reward you will get for your actions. SHIELD doesn't hand out medals to its agents. If they did, the sheer number that would be needed would be too expensive and break the budget. But that doesn't mean that our hard work is for nothing, or not valuable."

Barton was still listening to him very carefully. When Phil stopped talking, he spoke again, his voice just above a whisper.

"But how do I live with the guilt? I've killed a lot of people Coulson, innocent people, just because someone paid me to do it. I am actually a millionaire, but it is blood money, and I don't want to touch it at all. Is redemption even possible for someone who had caused so much suffering and pain to those who didn't deserve it?"

"We know about some of your kills, and I can tell you right now that many of them deserved what they got. They had it coming. Not everyone is innocent."

Clint just shook his head.

"What about all the others? They didn't deserve it. There were a few scumbags but..."

Instead of finishing his sentence, Clint buried his face in his hands. He didn't trust that his voice wouldn't break if he spoke.

Phil lowered his own gaze and swallowed before he spoke in a gentler voice.

"All you can do, is accept the fact that you did what you had to in order to survive. The odds were heavily stacked against you, Barton. Frankly, I think it is a miracle that you are sitting here today; after everything that you have gone through in your life."

"It's not a miracle when you are a murderer who killed people indiscriminately."

Phil shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Barton, I may not know about all your kills, but I can tell you right now that I know that you did not kill indiscriminately. Whatever you might tell yourself. Out of all your kills that we know about, and we know of over one hundred," the kid's eyes widened a bit at that, "I couldn't find a single instance where an innocent victim suffered more than they had to. All your hits were very quick and as painless as possible. In my experience, an assassin of your calibre generally wouldn't have been so worried about how they did a job. So long as they got paid enough for doing it, they wouldn't have cared what they did, or whom they took out."

"The fact that you were so careful, tells me that you knew you didn't have a choice about what you did. Yet, you had a set of morals and tried to stick to them. An assassin with morals more often than not ends up as a dead assassin. The fact you had morals, and yet survived, is not something to take lightly."

Clint was now openly glaring at Coulson, past sadness and onto anger.

"That doesn't mean anything. It was only a matter of time before I was caught or killed. I lost count of the number of organisations and agencies that were gunning for me towards the end. Even _you_ were trying to kill me. I still have the scar to prove it."

Clint pulled up his left pant leg just enough to reveal the thick pale scar on his calf from where he'd dug out the bullet Coulson had put in him in Tokyo.

After a moment, Coulson looked away guiltily.

"I'll admit, that was not my finest moment. In my own defence, I was going off what a file had told me about you. And there wasn't much information in that file either. It was only after I met you that I realised there was more humanity left in you than I had initially been led to believe. It was for that reason I thought that you deserved a second chance. That's why I looked for you afterwards, and made a different call in Paris when I eventually found you."

Clint just shook his head, as Phil continued speaking in a softer voice.

"The fact that you feel guilty over what you did; further tells me that you are not an indiscriminate killer, Barton. No matter what you might think. If that was the case, then you simply wouldn't care. As it is, you do care, and regret your actions. Taken together, those things tell me that deep down, you are a good man. You were just handed an unfair deal in life. It also tells me that you are seeking redemption, and want to make up for your past deeds."

Clint had to swallow a lump in his throat at hearing those words, and he dropped his head so that he wouldn't have to look Coulson in the eye and see the sincerity there. Coulson obviously believed those words to be true. If only Clint could. But it wasn't that simple.

"That doesn't change what I did, or make it any easier to live with."

Coulson just nodded in acceptance at Clint's words. He didn't offer any sympathies, or tell Clint that everything would be okay. For perhaps the first time, Clint was grateful for the blunt and genuine honesty that his handler possessed.

"I know. It is the only thing you can do though. And I know that you are strong Barton, and that you will find a way through this. Just don't forget that I am here for you. Please. No matter what happens, you can always come to me to talk about anything that bothers you. I mean it Barton."

"Whether it is guilt over your past, or fears about your future, it doesn't matter. You don't have to face anything along ever again. No matter what happens, I will always be here for you. Right up until the day I die. And even then," Phil smiled briefly, "Being the stubborn person that I am, I would probably come back in ghost form and haunt anyone whom I needed to for you."

Barton was giving Phil a look that he couldn't decipher. Phil looked right back at the young assassin, projecting honesty into every word he said, even as he willed Barton to believe him.

"I mean what I say Barton, so stop giving me that look. I am here for you, every step of the way. You are not alone anymore, Barton."

"Call me Clint."

Phil blinked.

That was unexpected.

"Are you sure?"

Barton, no, Phil told himself, _Clint_ , he wanted to be called _Clint_ , nodded firmly.

"Yes. I actually don't like being called Barton, but first names are a privilege that have to be earned. You have definitely earned the right to call me Clint."

"In that case, Clint, you can call me Phil. Though I don't mind being called Coulson, it just seems very impersonal."

Clint just shrugged in reply.

Phil, knowing that some agents preferred using surnames to address people by, didn't push it.

He'd given Clint the option of calling him by his first name.

It was up to the archer whether he actually decided to do it.

* * *

 _May and Fury; 23-24_ _th_ _of March._

"What did your visit to the Academy tell you? Anything useful regarding our suspicions?"

"No. Just that Barton is currently the favourite gossip among new recruits; even after all these months. Apparently he caused quite a stir there."

"Could it be possible that the Academy has been compromised?"

May nodded decisively.

"I'd say it is easily possible. It's changed a lot from when I went there. They have new recruits coming in almost constantly. If you wanted to infiltrate the place, it would be fairly easy to smuggle someone past regular background checks if you knew what you were doing. Or even to influence recruits once they are in."

Fury sat back and rubbed his eye patch as he contemplated everything that May had just told him.

"This is getting worse and worse."

May just nodded.

"Yes."

"You said that it has changed a lot. How exactly has it changed?"

"Well, for starters, individuality isn't encouraged."

Fury's eye snapped around to look at May.

"Meaning?"

May's eyes glinted.

"Meaning robot training."

Fury frowned.

"What?"

May looked very pleased with herself as she explained.

"Everyone is expected to behave in the same way, use the same weapons, and cultivate the same skill sets. Based on what I saw, it's no wonder that new graduates aren't up to scratch. They have less training than some of the scientists here do in self-defence and weapons."

Fury's frown deepened.

"That's not the point of agent training. Everyone has different skill sets. You can't just lump a whole heap of people together and train them using the same methods and techniques. That's not how you make good agents. Sooner or later they are going to need individualised training."

"Well, that isn't what is happening at the Academy of Operations."

There was silence for a few minutes. Fury thought hard. Finally, he looked up at May.

"Do you think that the Academy has been compromised?"

May frowned as she thought that question over carefully.

"All I know is that something is definitely off at the Academy. It didn't feel like SHIELD. It was weird."

Fury raised an eyebrow.

"Meaning?"

Fury sat there with a scowl on his face as he waited for May to expand on what she meant. He didn't have to wait long.

"It felt very secret-society-ish. I know it sounds crazy, but that is the best way of describing it. It was like everyone knew something that I didn't. That feeling didn't go away either, even after I had been there for two weeks."

"There are plenty of secrets in SHIELD."

"Yes, but this was different. I don't know how to explain it. I know there are secrets in SHIELD, but that doesn't make me uncomfortable. The secret that everyone seemed to know at the Academy, however, did make me uncomfortable. There was a very foreboding air about the place."

"If I hadn't had my own room with a door that locked from the inside, I probably wouldn't have gotten much sleep. It was that bad. At times I felt like I might be stabbed in the back at any minute if I wasn't on my guard."

Fury did not look happy.

"What were the students like?"

"They certainly weren't very welcoming. They _acted_ welcoming, don't get me wrong, but it just didn't feel right. It was actually kind of creepy, the way they would constantly watch me and whisper amongst themselves."

Fury's frown deepened even more.

"What about the trainers and officials?"

May hummed thoughtfully.

"Overall, they were even less welcoming than the students were. I understand why they might resent my interference; but constantly giving me death glares when they thought I wasn't looking at them was rather extreme. It didn't help that they were virtually all strangers to me. Only one or two faces were familiar from my time at the Academy, and it's only been a few years since I went there. I didn't exactly get a warm welcome from any of them; but the range master and the weapons master were especially cold towards me. There wasn't anything they could actually say or do to me, as I was there technically doing them a favour. However, they did their uttermost to make me uncomfortable when I was on any one of the ranges practicing my shooting."

May looked at Fury as she finished speaking, and quickly looked away. Fury's glare was enough to turn a whole dairy's worth of milk sour within a second. Not only that, but he looked positively murderous. May was suddenly immensely glad that she was on his side in this, and made a mental note to never cross Fury.

These enemies were going down, in the most painful way possible. May couldn't wait to get her hands on the person who'd sold the secrets that had led to her and her friends being hurt. She was looking forward to finding them and making them pay.

From the look of things, Fury had similar feelings on the matter.

* * *

Fury sat there with his scowl firmly in place, as he carefully contemplated all the information May had given him regarding her time at the Academy.

He didn't like the picture that was starting to emerge.

Especially when May's information was coupled with his own extensive research in the upper ranks of SHIELD. Over the last few months, Fury had been slowly and discreetly investigating the WSC and their activities. He'd been looking for any discrepancies, or anything suspicious. No one was aware of that fact, and he'd been extra careful not to get caught. That meant that the going was very slow. Fury was working hard on getting more information, but it was coming in at a snail's pace.

And he didn't want to rush things, as that was when mistakes happened. And Fury couldn't afford to make any mistakes. One wrong move and he could very well end up dead. For that reason, even though it was very frustrating that he didn't yet have much information to work with, he had to play it safe and go carefully.

The main bit of information that did stand out to him was the fact that his and May's findings didn't match up. Fury didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

While May's time at the Academy seemed to prove that something was definitely going on there, Fury hadn't yet found anything out that would implicate that any of SHIELD's higher-ups were involved in whatever was happening. If they were, it was hidden very well; and Fury hadn't dug deep enough to find that information just yet.

Now that May was back on base, Fury would have more time to pursue his own line of investigation. Not that he was going to tell her what he was doing, but she could look into some of the more mundane matters for him.

They just had to be careful that their joint actions didn't arouse suspicion. Fury knew that, sooner or later, the enemy would realise that they were being looked into. He just hoped that didn't happen for a while yet.

Fury looked across his desk

"Agent May, good job on finding out all that information at the Academy. This is what I want you to do next."

* * *

Melinda May glared at the computer monitor with a murderous expression on her face.

The monitor just stared back, completely unintimidated to be receiving the death glare.

May glared harder.

The monitor remained unaffected.

May actually growled. As an active level six agent, she had her own computer. It came in very handy at times.

At least, it did when it decided to work. Which it currently wasn't doing.

Thank goodness they had an IT department. She'd just called them, and they said that they would send someone down right away. May just hoped that they would be quick so she could get to work.

Just then, May looked up to see one of their technicians enter the room and head towards her.

"I understand that your computer isn't working? IT sent me down to see if I can fix it. The name's Peter."

May stopped glaring at the screen long enough to glare at him.

"Yes. It's frozen up and won't budge. I don't care who you are, so long as you can fix my computer."

The IT guy swallowed nervously.

"Okay, let's see what's wrong with it shall we?"

May didn't say anything else, just moved out of the way to allow Peter access to underneath the desk. She then crossed her arms, put on her best death glare, and waited for the results. Peter disappeared underneath the desk. A few minutes later there was a triumphant cheer.

"Ah-ha! Found it."

May looked at Peter, who now wore a triumphant look on his face as he crawled out from under the desk. He was slightly dusty, and May made a mental note to have a word to the cleaners about that. Just because she had been gone for a few weeks, there was no reason why under her desk hadn't been cleaned.

"There was a broken lead. That would be why it wasn't working. I'll go and get you a new one. Be back soon."

May just nodded and Peter went out, carrying the offended lead with him. He was back about ten minutes later, and crawled back under the desk to hook up the new one.

"Try turning it on now and see what happens."

May pressed the power button, and with a whirring the computer came to life.

Peter grinned triumphantly as he emerged from under the desk from the second time.

"It would seem that problem was caused by the broken lead. But if it gives you anymore trouble, just call. I'll be happy to come down and assist."

May nodded.

"Don't worry. If I have any more trouble, I will definitely be calling you guys."

"Good. Have a nice day Agent."

The technician left. May sat down at her desk, and frowned as she thought hard about the best way to complete the assignment that Fury had given her.

* * *

 **End of chapter 6**

* * *

 **Who thinks Phil is awesome? You can let me know just how awesome you think he is by leaving a review below!**


	7. It tears me apart

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **Thanks to Ren O'neil, Guest and Freeranger, who all reviewed chapter 6! Also thanks to blackkitty5133 who reviewed chapter 5. If anyone else is really enjoying reading this, please do leave a review.**

 **Thanks also goes to jaguarspot and Freeranger, both of whom helped to make this story better.**

 **Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

Trust has to be earned, and should come only after the passage of time. _Arthur Ashe_

* * *

 **Chapter 7: It tears me apart**

 _Tuesday 6_ _th_ _of April._

"Hawkeye, report. Can you see any of the guards yet?"

"None at the moment. The dock still looks deserted; these agents must be really good at hiding. All that's moving down there right now is ants. Honestly, there are millions of them. Maybe I could get them to do the job for me? Hey, then I could have an _ant_ -ire army at my disposal."

Clint smirked as he said it. He swore that he could _hear_ the unimpressed eye roll his handler was giving his comment through his comm unit.

"Very funny, Barton. Hilarious, in fact, note how hard I am _not_ laughing."

Clint mock pouted, even as his eyes scanned the area for movement. He was waiting until nightfall to make his move. Apart from tracking the guards, who turned up in his line of sight every so often, there was absolutely nothing else to do but tease Coulson.

"You're no fun. You have absolutely no sense of humour when duty calls."

"You don't get to be a level seven agent without putting in a lot of hard work Barton."

Phil smiled as a huff greeted his statement.

"I'm not going to get the last say here, am I?"

"Glad that you've finally realised that. It's taken you long enough."

"Yeh, well, I can be thick-headed sometimes."

Phil raised an eyebrow.

"Only sometimes?"

Barton's response was immediate and full of indignation.

"Yes. The rest of the time I am highly intelligent."

"I know."

Phil shook his head, even as a fond smile crept onto his face. It was hard to believe that, less than two months ago, convincing the young assassin to string two words together at one time had been a struggle. Even now, when they were at base or in the presence of others, Barton preferred to stay quiet and observe.

However, if you stuck a comm unit in his ear, and sent him off to observe something, he didn't shut up. He talked about anything and everything, and made tons of bad jokes and even worse puns. It could actually be very entertaining to listen too.

Phil didn't mind the ceaseless chatter from the almost trained specialist. He knew it was a sign that Barton trusted him, even if the archer hadn't actually said that much out loud. Actions often spoke louder than words, and Phil felt that that was especially true in this case.

Besides, Barton's chatter kept things from becoming boring.

And right now, things were very boring. The real action would come tonight, when Barton actually infiltrated the dock yard and found the right warehouse. As they were nearing the end of Barton's training, this practice mission was the most difficult one yet. The scenario they were playing with today was one that Phil hadn't heard of before. Barton had to infiltrate a dockyard that was controlled by a powerful gun runner. He was causing grief for several groups, including SHIELD, by supplying guns to the mob. The 'boss' himself was holding a meeting in one of the many warehouses there with an associate who supplied him with firearms; SHIELD had gotten all the details they needed from an informant.

Barton's job was to slip past the perimeter guards, without alerting anyone to his presence, and then find the right warehouse so that he could assassinate the boss, one Charley King. He was also to take out the person he was meeting with. That way, the associate wouldn't go and sell his wares to someone else, therefore starting the problem all over again.

It was up to Barton how he actually completed the job.

The important thing was not to raise the alarm before he shot his main targets. The guards checked in with each other every half hour, and any failure to do so would have someone coming to investigate immediately. That meant that shooting the guards around the perimeter on his way in was out of the question.

With a rifle it would have been out of the question anyway. The noise would have alerted them to his presence. But for this mission, Barton wasn't using a rifle. R&D had come through with the paintball arrows, and Barton was dying to try them out in the field. Actually, he was dying to try them out full-stop, especially since Wilkinson had banned him from using them inside at SHIELD ever again.

Personally, Phil had found purple (because of course the paint in them would be purple, this was _Barton_ , no _Clint_ , that they were talking about) targets rather fetching. Wilkinson, however, hadn't been amused.

Phil eventually hadn't been either, after he'd had to deal with all the paperwork that incident had generated. Barton was now strictly forbidden from using paintball arrows indoors. Though it was kind of funny to see Wilkinson riled up, Phil couldn't handle the paperwork.

"Overwatch?"

Phil realised that at some point while he was thinking, Clint had fallen silent.

"Yes, Hawkeye?"

"What will happen after this mission?"

"That will depend on the outcome. I have no doubts that you can do this. But, if for some reason you fail, then you will undergo more training. Then we'll retry the mission when you are ready for it."

"I can do it. I've done things like it before."

"I know. Just remember that the guards check in with the head body guard every thirty minutes. If one fails to check in, they will go looking for the reason why. The saying that dead men tell no tales is a lie. A body can be very suspicious in certain circumstances."

"I'm going to shoot people with paintball arrows overwatch; R&D assured me they aren't lethal, so long as they are shot at any part of a person's body but the head. I don't plan on shooting anyone in the head, so no one is dying tonight."

"This might be a practice mission Hawkeye, but we still follow the same protocols we would use in a real one. The whole point of practice missions is to conduct tests in a controlled environment, so that if something goes wrong, we can minimise the chances of someone getting seriously hurt or killed."

Clint sighed.

"I know. But knowing that you are not in any serious danger, even if you mess things up, takes the thrill out of it."

"Pretend that you are in danger then. You've got a good imagination."

"It's not the same. You can't replicate the adrenalin rush that comes with knowing one wrong move could get you killed."

Phil put his head in his hands as he just shook his head.

"That will come soon enough. For now, _I'm_ glad that even if things don't go according to plan, you aren't going to end up dead tonight."

There was silence for a long moment.

"You are possibly the first person in my life who would actually miss me if I died today."

Phil had to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat before he could answer that.

"Yes Clint, not only would I mourn you, but I would make sure there was some memorial service for you. Anyone who risks their life for SHIELD like you do deserves that."

Barton's voice was slightly husky when he spoke again.

"I haven't risked my life for SHIELD yet Overwatch. Technically, I'm still only a trainee. Also, I thought that you said to only use code names through the comms in case they are hacked into?"

"This was a special exception. Any signs of the guards yet?"

"No. If they have any sense they are probably sitting in the shade having a cold drink. It must be over one hundred degrees out here."

"Try just under eighty. I checked."

Clint sighed dramatically.

"Way to ruin it."

Phil listened with half an ear to Clint's chatter, even as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. There really was nothing else to do. It wasn't until Barton was lamenting how boring it could be on base that Phil got an idea.

"Do you like reading Barton?"

The archer stopped mid-word, and it was a few moments before he spoke again.

"Yes, I think so. At least, from what I remember it was okay. I've never had much time to do it, or many books available. I remember reading something about a magical talking horse when I was young, but I don't know what the book was called."

"Was it 'The Horse and His Boy'? One of the main characters in that is a talking horse. There are actually two of them."

"Can't remember. I know that I never got to finish it though. I wasn't a very good reader then, and we changed foster homes before I got to the end. The book wasn't mine, it belonged to that family."

"Why are you asking?"

"You are always complaining about there being nothing to do on base. I thought we could get you some books to keep you quiet for a bit. If you want, we can take a detour on our way back to base after this and visit a bookstore. It would give you something to do apart from generate paperwork for me."

"But Coooulsooooon, you _love_ paperwork. Everyone knows that you live for it."

"Everyone is deluded."

"You just don't want to admit it, because that means everyone will want you to do theirs as well."

"You are dreaming Barton."

"Really? 'Cause I thought that I had pretty solid evidence for my case."

Phil just shook his head in exasperation, as Barton started off on a new train of thought.

Life with the almost-qualified-agent was certainly never boring.

* * *

Clint dropped flat on the top of the shipping container just in time. If he'd dropped even three seconds later, the guard would probably have seen him.

Even though it was unlikely he possessed Clint's amazing night vision, the eye was always drawn to movement. For that reason, Clint lay stock-still. He didn't move, and hardly dared to breath, until the sound of boots scraping on concrete had faded. Not willing to risk being seen when he was so near completing the mission objective, Clint wriggled to the edge of the container and peaked over the edge. Once he was satisfied the coast was clear, he noiselessly swung off the container and hung from the edge by his fingertips for a moment, before he dropped noiselessly to the ground.

He was almost there.

So far, he'd managed to avoid all the guards, but it had been a close call a few times. At first, the shipping containers had been great to travel across. They were stacked so close together that Clint was able to creep across the top of them without being seen from the ground. As he'd gone deeper into the yard, and the containers had thinned out, it had become a lot riskier. That guard had almost seen him. He'd have to either stay on the ground from here, or risk being seen.

Clint knew which option he was going to take.

First though, he'd better check in with Coulson.

"Overwatch, I'm proceeding on ground level. I have the right warehouse in my sight, but it may take me a while to get there. There are guards everywhere."

Coulson's answer was immediate.

"Okay. Be careful, and let me know when you get there."

"Roger that."

Clint melted into the shadows cast by the containers. He'd had lots of practice at moving silently, and, unless you saw the flicker of movement, he was practically invisible as he was clad in dark grey-black from head to toe. Clint knew he had found the right warehouse as soon as he laid eyes on it. The two guards standing on watchful attention at the back were a dead giveaway. If that wasn't enough, the others posted around the perimeter of the warehouse only reinforced the fact that something big was happening here tonight.

Clint looked up hopefully to see if there were any windows he could use to enter the place. There was one up really high, but Clint realised with chagrin that he had no way of reaching it without being seen and shot at.

There was only one way to do this. He'd have to take out all the guards before he climbed up to the window. Once he'd shot them, he'd have to move very quickly so that no one would notice what was happening and raise the alarm.

After exchanging words with Coulson regarding the plan, Clint removed his bow from his shoulders and selected one of his paintball arrows. Clint drew an arrow back before he leant around the side of the container and fired at one of the guards. Clint saw the look of surprise on his face, as an arrow hit him in the chest and splattered him in purple paint (Clint was seriously starting to like Ronda from R&D. She hadn't batted an eyelid when he'd asked for the arrows to have purple paint in them). Clint swiftly took out the other two he could see from his present location, before he switched locations and took out the two guards that were stationed at the other end of the building.

Once he'd taken care of the last guard on the seaward side of the warehouse, Clint moved fast. He ran across the open space on light feet, and climbed the ladder set on the side of the warehouse that led up to the roof. When he reached the level of the window, he had to lean a fair way over to look in, as the ladder was not in an optimum location. However, the window was so filthy that he couldn't see anything through it anyway. The latch was very rusty, and gave way easy as soon as Clint applied pressure to it. After glancing around to make sure that no one saw him, Clint used his acrobatic skills to twist his body around to allow him to enter the warehouse feet first.

Once he was inside, Clint didn't make a sound as he balanced on the rafters while he took stock of the situation below him. He heard loud voices almost immediately, and it wasn't hard to trace them back to the source. Clint hid in the shadows of the rafters as he took in the scene below him. He recognised the main target immediately, the file Coulson had had him memorise had contained a very good photograph of one Charley King. He was sitting at a table flanked by three body guards, and the person sitting opposite him had two.

Clint grinned to himself as he selected an arrow, and quietly moved into a position where he had an unobstructed line of sight to King's chest. His plan was to take out King first, and then his supplier, whose name was unknown. For all his complaining to Coulson earlier that the adrenaline rush on these things wasn't the same, Clint was actually enjoying the knowledge that he wasn't going to die. It meant he could really think and plan things out without having added pressure. In the field he wouldn't have had that luxury, and would run the risk of rushing things without thinking them through properly.

Maybe Coulson had a point about training taking place in a controlled environment. Without the added stress of one wrong move resulting in his death, Clint felt very calm and focused on the job at hand.

Before he actually took the shot, Clint checked in with Coulson, hoping no one would hear him. They were talking very loudly down below after all.

"Overwatch, I have the shot."

Coulson's response was immediate.

"You are cleared, specialist. Fire at will."

So Clint did.

Before the first arrow had even hit 'Kings' chest, Clint was already drawing another one and releasing it at the dealer. Down below him, things were thrown into chaos as both 'King' and the 'dealer' where both struck with paintball arrows within seconds of each other. His job done, Clint hurried to the window and, after checking that the coast was clear, slipped out.

"Overwatch, both targets are down. On my way out now."

"What's happening?"

"There is a lot of noise and confusion, but no one seems to be actually doing anything about finding the person who shot the arrows. Lucky for me."

"Careful of the guards stationed around the yard. They will be on the lookout as soon as they learn what has happened, and will likely shoot at anything that moves."

"I know. Going radio silent until I know it's safe."

"Acknowledged. But leave the comm open."

"I will."

Getting out of the dock yard turned out to be a greater challenge than Clint had anticipated. He ended up having to shoot two more guards, as they weren't moving and were in his way. Still, he managed to get out without being shot at, which was a vast improvement on previous jobs he'd done that were similar to this.

After a good deal of ducking, dodging and standing stock still in the shadows, Clint made it to the perimeter of the yard. He was able to go out the same way he'd gone in, though he'd had two other routes planned out as backups. Happily, he hadn't had to use either of them.

Coulson was waiting for him at the extraction point a couple of blocks away, standing next to a silent black SUV. As Clint sauntered into view, his head came up and Phil examined Clint. Finally satisfied that he wasn't hurt, Phil smiled.

"Good job. That was very smoothly done. The agents on site have reported to me that they didn't even know you were around until you shot them. Nice work Hawkeye."

Clint shrugged. He still wasn't used to compliments and praise, but was trying to accept them for Coulson's sake.

"I told you I've done stuff like that before. It was better than the last stupid practice run you sent me on."

Coulson was climbing behind the wheel of the SUV by this stage, and Clint had to scramble to keep up. As a result, Coulson apparently didn't hear what Clint had said. Either that or he'd decided not to answer, as Phil said nothing in response. Clint was secretly glad. He did not really want to be reminded how the last practice mission had ended.

At least he'd been able to make sure that this one went better.

* * *

 _Undisclosed location._

Melinda May keyed her access number into the electronic locking system on the door. After a moment it flashed green, and May pushed the door open before she slipped inside out of the rain. Carefully closing the door behind her, she waited for the electronic 'click' that told her it was locked. Once inside, she removed the hood of her raincoat and headed in the direction of her goal. She kept her eyes peeled for trouble and her gun was in her hand, even though the safety was on. She could flick it off and still shoot someone in the blink of an eye after all, and she didn't want to shoot the wrong person by mistake.

Not that anyone else should be here. But, as far as May knew, being too careful hadn't killed anyone in their profession just yet.

She came to the right door in the basement, and keyed her access code into the keypad on this door. When confirmation came, she entered and walked over to the desk where Director Fury was sitting. He was glaring at his laptop screen with an expression that clearly stated that it had personally offended him. He transferred that glare to May as she sat down in the only other chair in the room. However, his glare quickly turned into concern when he noticed her grim expression.

"Agent May, report. What is wrong? What's happened?"

May didn't look happy.

"Nothing good boss, nothing good at all. Things are, in fact, only getting worse."

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Since I got back from the Academy a few weeks ago, I hadn't heard so much as a whisper from anyone regarding our problem. I was worried that I may have somehow tipped them off to the fact that we are on to them; and that they might have gone to ground as a result."

Fury frowned deeply.

"Have and had? As in the past tense?"

May looked very grim.

"That was before this morning; it gets worse. Now, I have proof that they know we are onto them. Look at this."

May handed an unmarked folder to the Director and he opened it. After a moment he looked up at her.

"What are your thoughts on this?"

"That whoever sent it is in big trouble when I find them. I don't like being threatened."

Fury's lips twitched.

"Do you have any idea who sent it?"

May looked extremely put out when she answered.

"No."

Fury's eye glinted.

"Is it going to stop your investigation?"

May's eyes had narrowed at Fury's question. Whether the anger she projected was aimed at him or the traitor, Fury couldn't be sure.

He thought that it was probably the later.

Surely, even the fearless Melinda May wouldn't dare be mad at him. Fury had spent a lot of time and effort ensuring that he was a suitably formidable force.

"No. And when I find out who is threatening me in this way, they are going to regret the day they were born."

Fury had never doubted that.

"How did it arrive?"

"It was slipped under the door to my apartment sometime last night. I found it this morning. It was in a plain, standard SHIELD-issued envelope with my name printed on it. There were no fingerprints or other identification marks. I checked."

"What about the security cameras?"

"That's where it gets really interesting. I looked up the security footage for that corridor straight away, and a whole night's worth of footage was somehow not recorded last night. When I checked with IT, they didn't know what had happened."

Fury's frown deepened.

"That's not at all suspicious."

"No, it is not." May deadpanned.

There was silence for a moment before May spoke again.

"So, where do we go now?"

Fury had been asking himself that question for a while now, and was still no closer to an answer. There was one thing that he wanted May to follow up on however.

"I do have one thing that you could look into for me. Since you showed me this note, I've been wondering how they knew that you were onto them. What have you been using to do your research since our last meeting?"

"My computer for some of it. But I have every single privacy filter on that exists, and I've been careful not to search anything too suspicious. The rest has been observing and keeping track of piles of mission forms. Some of them have been electronic but most are hard copy."

Fury frowned.

"Is it possible that your computer has been compromised Agent May?"

May stared at him in shock.

"I hadn't thought of that. Shit, a bug in the system would explain a lot."

Fury nodded in agreement.

"It certainly would. Have you had any computer problems since you came back?"

May nodded slowly.

"Yes, when I went to log on for the first time it wouldn't work. One of the IT guys came and fixed it. I was told there was a broken lead, and they replaced it. Do you think that they planted a bug then?"

"Possibly, we don't know how deeply the corruption runs. Anyone could be involved."

May nodded absently as she sat there with an intensely thoughtful look on her face. Opposite her, Fury continued to frown as he thought about what May had told him.

This was becoming a very big problem, a problem that would only get bigger with time if they didn't do something now. Fury read the note that May had received a few times, before he looked across the table at her. After a bit of thinking, Fury slowly smiled as an idea presented itself. He now knew what he wanted her to do next. It was dangerous and a huge gamble, but Fury hadn't lived his life without taking risks. In this case, he felt that the payout could be worth it.

They didn't seem to be getting anywhere with their current approach of using stealth and secrecy, and they had been found out anyway. That being the case, maybe it was time to make some noise.

"Agent May, I have a new assignment for you."

* * *

 _Sometime later._

"So, are you clear on all the details?"

May nodded.

"Crystal. I still think that it is a bad idea though."

"If you have a better one, I am open to hearing it."

May didn't answer, and Fury nodded.

"In that case, you are dismissed, Agent May."

After May left the room, Fury watched the video feed from the camera that was located in the front hall to make sure that she did leave. He didn't think that May was involved with this, but he was taking no chances. Once he was satisfied that she was indeed gone, Fury sat there and frowned as he read the note May had received again.

They were outnumbered. That was one thing that Fury _was_ sure about. As he'd said to May before, they didn't know how deep the corruption ran. Fury had always operated on the assumption that the enemy was smarter, faster and stronger than he was.

Whether that was true or not didn't matter.

If you prepared for the worse scenario, then you were less likely to be taken by surprise by whatever happened.

But that was also the reason why it wasn't a good idea to work alone. Fury knew that he needed more help if he was to improve his chances of winning. He needed people he trusted, who knew about this problem, looking for information.

Unfortunately, he couldn't risk telling anyone else about what was happening. It was too risky. Anyone could be a traitor or in league with them.

That left Fury with just one person that he could turn to for help. Actually, make that two.

After all, both Barton and Phil already knew about Fury's suspicions. Whether they had any information that Fury could actually use was doubtful, as neither of them had come to him to tell him anything.

But still, they might unwittingly know something that would help Fury to get the upper hand on their enemy.

It was worth a shot at any rate. As long as he was still breathing, Fury could not, and would not, let the enemy win.

* * *

 **End of chapter 7**

* * *

 **Phil and Clint, at last I'm being nice to you, my precious babies! Your bond of trust is so precious to me. But Fury is on the warpath, oh no. This is not going to end well for someone.**

 **If you are enjoying this story, don't forget to leave a review!**


	8. To sacrifice it all

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **A shout out to Guest and Freeranger for reviewing the last chapter!**

 **As usual, special thanks goes to jaguarspot for the beta-ing, and Freeranger for general help.**

 **Fury somehow managed to take over this chapter. Again. Seeing he won't leave me alone, let's see what he has to say!**

* * *

Trust cannot be commanded; and yet it is also correct that the only one who earns trust is the one who is prepared to grant trust. _Gustav Heinemann_

* * *

 **Chapter 8: To sacrifice it all**

 _Two nights after the mission, SHIELD's New York Base._

"So, that's the situation as it currently stands. What are your thoughts on the matter?"

Fury gazed levelly at Phil, waiting for the other man to respond to what he'd just told him. He wasn't waiting for long.

"You're telling me that this traitor problem is getting _worse_? And that you still don't know who is behind it?"

"That is correct."

Phil shook his head in bewilderment as he sat down rather heavily on the couch opposite Fury. They were in his apartment.

"So, in light of that information, what is it that you want from me?"

"Anything that you have. Have you noticed anything suspicious happening around SHIELD, or heard something that seemed out of place? If you have, then I need to know. Any information that I can get hold of is vital."

Phil shook his head slowly.

"No, I don't think so. Working with Barton doesn't give me much time to listen to gossip, or do anything beyond trying to keep him out of trouble. It's a fulltime job."

Fury's eye twitched minutely.

"Karma. Now you know what it feels like to be responsible for a sometimes crazy sniper."

Phil just nodded mournfully.

"Yes, I do. I also hereby humbly apologise for every single thing I did to make Nick Fury's life a living hell when I was younger."

If the circumstances of their meeting weren't so serious, Nick might have smiled. As it was, he nodded shortly.

"Apology noted. So, there's really nothing that you can tell me that might be useful? You haven't heard anything said that might lead to something bigger? No matter how trivial it may seem?"

Phil sighed, even as he lent back on the couch and messaged his temples.

"No, I don't think that I have heard anything. I don't exactly listen to gossip."

Fury found that hard to believe, Phil wasn't the kind to let something happen that he didn't know about. Then again, Barton _was_ high maintenance. Speaking of which...

"What about Barton? Has he said anything that seemed suspicious? I would still love to know more details regarding his time at the Academy. Has he said anything to you?"

Based on what May had told him, Fury had his suspicions that the boy actually knew more useful information than he realised he did. Even though Fury intended to talk to Barton in person tonight, anything Phil knew was also vital.

Phil was silent for about four or five minutes as he thought hard. Fury waited patiently.

"Barton did mention to me that the instructors at the Academy were very controlling and not keen on individuality. Coupled with what you've just told me, could there be more to that than meets the eye?"

"Possibly. Something fishy is definitely going on there. I'm sure of it."

Phil frowned.

"How are you sure of that?"

Fury gave him the look, and Phil sighed in resignation.

"Stupid question. Forget I said anything."

Fury ignored that as he went back to thinking. So, Barton had apparently noticed the same thing that May had. The difference being that Barton didn't know that that wasn't how it should be. Fury was looking forward to talking to the archer again and finding out just what he'd observed. Coupled with May's own observations, Fury hoped that he might finally be able to start to see the bigger picture.

He already had a few suspicious as to where this was heading, but lacked solid evidence. Rumours were simply not enough evidence to go on.

Fury was planning to talk to Barton next, but he'd wanted to get Phil's opinion on things first. After all, Phil had no idea that Barton knew about the traitor business.

And Fury would like to keep it that way. He felt that it was safer for everyone if no one but him knew the full picture.

As Fury was thinking these things, Phil suddenly raised his head in alarm; and looked at Fury with wide eyes.

"Oh hell, could _Barton_ have been compromised while he was there?"

Fury knew that Phil cared about the kid, but the devastation that was clear on his face at that thought was heartbreaking. Fury realised that, if he didn't want Coulson to be in danger of bursting several blood vessels, then he'd better come clean about Barton.

So much for keeping things a secret.

But Fury couldn't, with a clear conscience, not tell Phil that Barton also knew about the traitor. That was plain cruel, and cruel was one thing that Fury tried not to be to those few people whom he counted as friends.

"Phil, look at me."

Fury put on his 'I'm the Director, don't you dare ignore what I say' voice, and the effects were immediate.

Phil's head shot up, and he gave Fury his full attention.

"I don't believe Barton was compromised while he was at the Academy. For starters, he knew what was happening ahead of time. I've had my suspicions that something was wrong there for a long time. I didn't send him in blind."

Phil blinked.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Fury knew that Phil would blow a fuse at what he was about to be told, and he wasn't looking forward to it. Especially as Phil had the tendency to make Fury feel very guilty if he did something that Phil didn't approve of.

How the man managed to achieve that feat, Fury would never know.

But he did.

"It means that he knew about the traitor business before he went to the Academy."

Phil's eyes narrowed a fraction, even as his lips tightened. After a moment Phil spoke in a controlled tone of voice.

"That would mean he knew about the traitor before I did."

Phil looked livid as he said that. He crossed his arms and stared Fury down without saying another word.

Knowing that Phil could stare at someone for hours without speaking when it suited him, Fury nodded.

"Yes. I told him about my suspicions about three weeks into his career with SHIELD. Well before I told you. I needed someone who I knew couldn't be involved to look into things for me. No one in SHIELD can be trusted."

Phil's eye's narrowed and his lips thinned as he processed what Fury was telling him. When he spoke, his voice was very carefully controlled.

"Why did you tell him and not me? Do you not trust me after all these years? You know that I would never betray you or SHIELD."

Fury sighed wearily as he slumped in his seat.

"Yes, I know that Phil."

"So, why didn't you tell me before you did? I thought that you'd only just found out when you told me. I had no idea that you'd known for ages before that."

The look that Phil was currently giving Fury was cold enough to freeze the Pacific Ocean. Fury knew he had to come completely clean with Phil, or there would be trouble. Phil could hold a grudge like no one else Fury had ever met. Besides, after everything Phil had done for Fury in the last decade, he was owed that much.

"The reason that I did not tell you earlier, was because I wasn't sure of anything then. I was worried that if you started poking around where you weren't welcome, that you'd end up a target. I can't afford to lose you Phil. I told Barton about my suspicions before I told you for very good reason. I needed someone who was expendable to look into things. That way, if something bad happened in the process, I wouldn't lose an irreplaceable asset."

Fury knew as he said it that calling Barton expendable wouldn't go down well with Phil, and so when he finished speaking he waited for the explosive anger to come.

Phil's expression had now morphed into one of stunned shock/anger.

"You were prepared to sacrifice Barton? To protect me?"

Fury looked at him with resolve and determination in his one eye.

"What else was I supposed to do? Barton knew the risks beforehand, I made sure of that. He knew what could happen to him, and yet agreed to help me of his own free will. It was entirely his choice. I didn't make him do anything. You can ask him yourself if you want to."

The anger that Fury had been waiting for suddenly arrived in full force. It was enough to make Fury wince.

Phil was really mad. And a really mad Phil was a scary thing. Especially when it was you that he was mad at.

"How dare you! How DARE you! Here I've been, trying to show _Clint_ that he can trust me and tell me anything, and the whole time he was deliberately keeping this from me! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?! I thought that we had an understanding!"

Phil suddenly broke off his rant to glare at his boss with fire burning in his eyes.

When it became clear that Phil wasn't going to speak anytime soon, Fury judged it was safe to talk.

"It's not like that Phil, and you know it. When did you go to a first name basis with Barton anyway?"

Phil glared.

"I have a good mind not to tell you, after what you neglected to tell me."

"Come on Phil, we are grown-ass adults, not pre-schoolers. Don't be petty."

Phil continued to glare at Fury again, with a glare that Fury suspected was born from observing _his_ own glare for years.

It was eerily similar.

"It was a month or so ago now. We don't always use first names, but I was given permission to use his."

Fury looked satisfied.

"There you go. He does trust you. He wouldn't give you permission if he didn't. First names are a privilege."

The anger was clearly still there, but at hearing that Phil frowned at Fury.

"That is exactly what he told me. I still don't really get it."

That's because you are not a spy, Fury thought. You haven't been in situations where, if your identity is compromised, you'll end up dead. Barton and I have a lot more in common than you and Barton do. He gets it, his whole life he's had to fight to survive.

Fury privately thought that the fact that Phil wasn't the best spy was what had led Barton to connect with him. Phil was honest, hardworking and genuine. He didn't engage in the games of lies and deceit that spies played if he could help it.

Not to say that Coulson wasn't a good agent, he was one of the best that Fury had. However, he wasn't spy material; he was a soldier and a leader first and foremost. Barton, however, had the makings of a fine spy in him.

He just needed the right sort of guidance, and someone that he could trust, to realise his potential.

Fury felt that Coulson fitted both of these bills perfectly.

Fury's thoughts were interrupted just then by a still pissed-off Phil Coulson.

"Is there anything else that you want to talk to me about? Or have you shattered my world enough for one evening?"

Phil's shoulders were set and he had a determined expression on his face.

"Also, I am talking to Clint first thing tomorrow morning. So you'd better tell him it's okay to talk to me or there will be consequences. Remember the toaster?"

If the glare that Phil directed his way was any indication, Fury knew that there would be wigs on the green if he didn't talk to Barton right now.

And yes, regrettably, he _did_ remember the toaster incident. It was hard to forget that much cheese. Trust Phil to bring that up. He did whenever he decided that Fury was to do something.

Before Phil could say anything else that could be used to blackmail him (there were disadvantages to someone having known him before he was officially Director Nick Fury), Fury stood up.

"That's all for now. I'm going to go and talk to Barton. I'll let him know that it is okay to talk to you about these things."

Phil's glare was still firmly in place as he stared at the Director.

"You'd better."

That glare followed Fury right out of Phil's apartment. Once the door closed behind him, Fury slumped slightly and sighed in relief.

One down, a little less smoothly than he would have liked, but still.

That left just one to go.

Fury headed towards the stairs. Not wanting anyone to know what he was doing, Fury had looped the video footage in Phil's corridor before he'd gone up there. However, he hadn't done anything about the cameras in the elevator. Looping them was too much of a security risk at the moment.

Besides, the elevator didn't stop at his next destination.

 **...**

Clint swung his legs over the side of the building as he waited on the roof. He'd been extremely surprised when a note had been slipped under his door earlier today. It hadn't taken him long to guess that Fury was the one behind it. Who else would ask for a private meeting on the roof at this crazy hour?

Phil would have called him into his office, or told him in person. The anonymous note approach reeked of Fury.

That man was fond of dramatics.

Clint got that one couldn't be too careful, but _still_.

Clint checked his watch again. Fury's note had said to be on the roof at two am. It was now ten minutes past, and the Director still hadn't arrived.

Clint was feeling peevish. He was still tired from the last practice mission a few days ago, and would have preferred to be in bed sleeping. Ever since he'd confided in Coulson just over a month ago, the nightmares had calmed down. They were inclined to do this. Clint could go for weeks with only fuzzy images in his dreams. Then, for six nights straight, he could be woken up by monster nightmares after only being asleep for an hour or so. On those nights, going back to sleep was out of the question, so Clint normally did a lot of wandering around in the vents during those times.

Clint's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the roof access door opening. Clint turned his head slightly to look at whoever had come out. His peripheral vision was, after all, very good. One quick glance was all he needed to confirm his earlier suspicions.

It was Fury.

The Director walked over to the edge of the roof, and sat down in the same spot that Phil did. He didn't say anything at first; instead he just stared out into the night like Clint was.

A significant period of time had passed before Fury spoke.

"How are you going Barton?"

Clint looked at him and shrugged.

"I'm okay."

He had no idea where Fury was heading with his questions, and if the older man wanted to lead him on a chase, Clint wasn't doing it. The Director had asked for this meeting, not him.

In Clint's opinion, that meant that Fury could jolly well tell him what the hell was happening. He shouldn't have to, and was not going to, pry that information out of the Director.

"I suppose that you are wondering what I want with you?"

Clint looked at Fury with a raised eyebrow, because dah? Hell yeh, Clint was wondering all right. You didn't request top secret late night meetings in places that were difficult to access, unless you didn't want anyone to overhear what you were going to say.

"I gather it's something that is top secret. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. The note business was very inconspicuous."

"Thank you. Now, I have reason to suspect that you have information that I can use."

Fury turned to look at Clint, his one eye bored into the archer, but not in an intimidating way.

"What the hell happened at the Academy? I want to know every single little thing that happened to you there. Down to what they fed you and what time your classes were."

Clint glared right back at the Director. Having to wait for Fury to show up hadn't put him in the best mood.

"I suppose that you would like to know when we were allowed bathroom breaks as well?"

Fury blinked once.

"If there were actually scheduled bathroom breaks then yes, I want to know about that as well. I also want to know about the supervisors and instructors, what they did and how they treated you. I want to know what people said, how they acted, and what their thoughts were on events. Anything at all that you can tell me is information that I can use."

Clint shrugged as he looked out over the base again.

"The instructors were assholes. I seem to remember telling you _that_ already."

"Could you expand on why you thought that they were assholes?'

Clint scowled and crossed his arms defensively as he thought back to his short stay at the Academy.

"One: they wanted everything to run like clockwork. Everyone was supposed to stand in line like good little soldiers, and not step out of that line unless they were given a personal invitation to. Even then, they were expected to do everything that they were told to do without a murmur of rebellion. It took less than a week for me to make myself unpopular."

Fury didn't let any emotion show as Barton confirmed May's findings. Instead, he stared at Barton. When the archer paused a few moments later and looked at him for confirmation, Fury gave him a nod to continue.

"The range and weapon masters were the worst. Everything else, I could deal with. However, they disliked me from day one. I don't know if it was because I refused to use their weapons, or because I broke all the shooting records that existed with a bow and arrows. Either way, my range time was very limited. They took the bow away from me, and banned me from using the range unless one or both of them gave me explicit permission. And they certainly weren't keen on giving out permission. I was made to use a rifle the majority of the time, and they never missed an opportunity to try and belittle me. Good thing that I have a thick skin and can outshoot anyone in a competition. It doesn't matter what kind of weapon I have, I'm the best shot there is."

Barton wasn't even boasting; he was simply stating a fact that they both knew to be true. However, Fury had other things on his mind by this point.

"So, what did you do?"

Barton avoided looking directly at Fury, and it was a while before he answered him, his tone defensive.

"What makes you think that I did anything?"

Fury didn't bother answering that. After a moment, Barton drooped.

"I practically lived in the air vents and used them to get places. I was assigned a bed in a bunkroom, but I didn't like anyone who was bunking with me so I slept in the vents. It felt much safer."

Fury immediately latched onto that piece of information.

"What do you mean by _it felt safer_?"

Barton shrugged.

"It just did. I don't feel safe sleeping near other people. Especially as I have to take my ears out for at least part of the night; if I don't the audiologist will chew me out on my next visit. That woman has a temper. Anyway, I just didn't trust anyone not to do something. I'm used to watching my own back, but this was different. I felt like they were watching me, and waiting for their chance."

Fury's frown deepened.

"Who are 'they'? And chance for _what_?"

Barton shrugged his shoulders.

"Anyone, no one, I don't know. Sharing a sleeping space with others wasn't the only thing that I felt uneasy about."

Fury's ears pricked.

"Oh?"

He waited for Barton to continue with well concealed impatience. The kid was telling him a lot, and, as much as Fury wanted the information faster, he wasn't going to push. Not while Barton was willingly talking anyway.

"Yes. Most of the other trainees ostracised me, and talked about how weird I was when I was within hearing. At least the mean ones did. The others talked behind my back about what I'd done to end up at SHIELD when I obviously didn't deserve it."

Fury frowned.

"But you do deserve it. I wouldn't have gone to the trouble of supporting Coulson, and bringing you in, if I'd thought otherwise."

Barton refused to look at Fury.

"Whatever you say."

Fury felt like murdering the Academy trainees. There was a very good reason why he never visited the Academy. He couldn't handle wet-behind-the-ears, wanna-be agents. They were inclined to give him hives.

"You do deserve to be here Barton, more than most of them do probably. They have yet to prove themselves and earn their place here. You have already done both those things."

Barton just shrugged yet again and didn't respond. It was Fury who broke the awkward silence that had fallen.

"So, anything else that you can tell me? Were you the only one that seemed to have those problems, or were there others?"

Clint frowned as he thought back.

"As far as I know, I was the only one. Everyone else seemed to fit in okay. They sucked up to the instructors and did what they were told."

Fury internally grinned at that. He couldn't see Barton sucking up to _anyone_ , and his insubordination and refusal to listen to orders he thought stupid were legendary. Still, he seemed to be getting along okay with Coulson, which was something.

As Fury was finding out, Barton needed very special handling if he was to perform at his best.

Fortunately, Coulson seemed to be up to that particular challenge.

Fury would never admit it to anyone, but in the beginning he'd had his doubts that it would work out.

He'd known that Barton was something special from the first time he'd seen him step into that prison interrogation room. But he hadn't been sure about Phil being his handler.

Hell, Fury hadn't been sure if Barton _could_ be handled.

He was secretly pleased that his fears had turned out to be for nothing.

"Barton. I am going to ask you something, and I want an honest answer. But first, I want you to listen to me carefully. This is very important."

Clint shifted around slightly to give Fury his full attention. He then raised an eyebrow and waited expectantly.

"What you experienced, what was done to you, is not what the Academy is supposed to be about. The instructors are supposed to help the students in whatever way they can. It shouldn't matter if someone is different. It never used to. Going on information that I have received from other sources that ties in with what you've told me, I suspect that the Academy has been compromised. This is what I want to ask you. While you were there, did you hear anything, either officially or unofficially, that would confirm that?"

Clint frowned.

"What do you mean, unofficial?"

"As in you weren't supposed to hear it, but were listening anyway. Don't pretend that you didn't eavesdrop on things that didn't concern you while you were hiding in the vents."

Clint's response was defensive.

"You're the one who asked me to."

"Yes, I did. So, did you hear anything?"

Barton was already shaking his head.

"No. Nothing. People didn't talk about much in the areas that I was able to access. In fact, people didn't seem to talk much _at all_. It was like being in a morgue at times, the silence was freaky. And before you ask; yes. I know what they are like on the inside."

Fury was sure he didn't want to know the details there, so he ignored that bit of the conversation. Instead, he focussed on the earlier part. Remembering what May had said about it feeling like a secret society, Fury chose his next words carefully.

"So, you are saying that it felt like there was some foreboding secret hanging over everyone's heads?"

Clint blinked thoughtfully.

"That is one way of describing how I felt. Only I didn't know the secret, and no one made any attempts to enlighten me. As I've already said, they tended to avoid me altogether. That's all that I know."

Fury was openly scowling. Clint glanced at the Director sideways, and hoped that he wasn't the cause of that scowl. Clint didn't think he was, but you never could be sure. As he waited for the Director to speak again, Clint came to a startling realisation.

Subconsciously, somewhere along the line, Clint realised that he'd come to trust Fury. It wasn't the sort of close trust that Clint was starting to build with Coulson, the kind of trust that led to Clint being able to talk about things that worried him. It was the knowledge that he could trust Fury to keep his word. Clint also realised that, so long as he treated the Director with respect (when it mattered) Fury would treat him the same way.

It was with that revelation that Clint remembered the words that Fury had said to him all those months ago, before he'd left for the Academy.

" _Loyalty goes both ways with me Barton; I want you to remember that."_

Yeh, Clint thought with a start. It really did.

 **...**

Fury scowled heavily as he contemplated everything that Barton had just told him. Barton's information had confirmed May's observations. Something was off at the Academy.

After hearing everything that Barton had to say, Fury was starting to have strong suspicions as to what might be going down there. He'd seen the same signs before, elsewhere, and he hadn't forgotten what had happened then. Or would have happened, if he hadn't stopped it before things had spiralled out of control.

A thump jerked Fury out of his thoughts. Barton was lying flat out on his back with his legs dangling over the side of the building. His back hitting the roof was what Fury had heard.

Before Fury could say anything, Barton spoke in a bored voice.

"Are we finished here, or do you have something else to say, big-boss-man? You do realise that I could be sleeping right now, and would be if I wasn't such an obedient agent?"

Fury managed not to laugh out loud at the irony in Barton's words, but it was a close thing.

"You and obedient are a contradiction of terms, Barton."

"I know. It's a reputation that I put a lot of work into maintaining. It's exhausting, so I need to sleep to keep it up."

As Fury had gotten all the information that Barton possessed, he got up to leave. He remembered what Phil had told him just in time. Turning around to face Barton, who was still lying flat out on his back on the roof, Fury addressed him.

"Before I go, you should know that Coulson knows about this matter. He also knows that you know. He will probably say something about it to you tomorrow. You no longer have to keep the fact that you know a secret from him, but any new information that you uncover comes straight to me. Do I make myself clear?"

Barton sat up and blinked a few times as he stared at Fury.

"Yes. I think so."

Fury waited a few moments, but when Barton said no more Fury left him sitting on the roof and went back inside.

It was time for some serious thinking.

And he had a lot to think about. A lot of pieces of a puzzle to put together, and a lot of suspicions to keep an eye open about. But, frustratingly, he had very little evidence that was concrete.

So far, his suspicions were just that.

Suspicions.

Fury was at a disadvantage in this game. He didn't even have a clue who the enemy could be. At least during his spy days he'd always known who his enemies were.

In these circumstances, all Fury could do was wait for them to make their next move. He had to sit tight and wait for them to reveal themselves. There was no other way to do it.

And when they did reveal themselves (and they would, it was just a matter of when. You can't keep a secret from the master of secrets forever.), Fury would be ready for them.

And, by the time he was finished dealing with them, they would regret ever thinking that they had a chance of beating the master spy at his own game.

 **...**

 _The next morning._

"I got a visit from Fury last night."

Clint ducked to the right to avoid Phil's left fist. Pivoting on his left foot he coiled like a spring before he suddenly leapt backwards, towards Phil; his right leg came up as he swung around and aimed a kick at his handler's chest.

"Really?"

Phil arched his upper body backwards, so that Clint's leg passed harmlessly over him.

"Really."

As Clint's leg passed over, Phil grabbed hold of it to try and disable the archer by throwing him off balance. Clint staggered for a moment before he performed a half summersault to thrown Phil off balance. As he did he also brought his left leg around and the side of his trainer connected with Phil's jaw. The move was very difficult to make with Coulson still holding onto his other leg, but Clint managed it perfectly.

Phil let go of him with a curse as both his hands went to massaging the left side of his jaw. His leg now free, Clint threw himself backwards onto the mat again, this time landing lightly on his hands and springing up onto his feet straight away.

Clint grinned at the put-out look on his handlers face as he bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to go again. Phil's superior strength and training sometimes simply couldn't compete with Clint's near super-human speed and flexibility.

All the expert training that Clint was getting from Phil was definitely starting to bear fruit. The hours he spent in general training under Ardern's supervision were also helping. The new general trainer was a master at hand-to-hand and unarmed combat. In spite of having to take it easy for a few weeks after getting injured on that training mission, Clint was feeling fitter and stronger than he had been in a long time.

Phil moaned as he tenderly massaged his aching jaw.

"I'm sparing with a contortionist. So not fair. You have some dirty moves Barton. Who else would think of _kicking_ their opponent in that way?"

Clint just grinned as he taunted his handler.

"What's wrong, old man? Can't keep up with me? You were a little slow there."

Phil glared at him.

"You kicked me in the jaw. It hurt, and I'm going to have a huge bruise."

"You're the one who grabbed my leg and wouldn't let go. You brought it on yourself."

"That didn't mean that you had to kick me."

Clint shrugged as he brought his hands up defensively and prepared to go again.

"What did he have to say?"

It took Phil a moment to realise that Clint was referring to Fury. Phil dodged or blocked Clint's remarkably well aimed punches as he answered. The kid was seriously improving in hand-to-hand combat.

"He wanted to talk to me about a small issue that he is having. He said that you are already aware of it, and have been helping him to try to find a traitor."

Clint froze for a second at Phil's words, but that was all the time that Phil needed to turn the tables on him. Before the archer had time to react, Phil attacked him with a flurry of fists. The attacks came so hard and fast that Clint didn't have any time to plan a counter-attack. He was far too busy simply trying to defend. Coulson's words had rattled him however; and, before Clint really knew what was happening, he was lying on the ground on his stomach. Coulson was calmly holding his right arm behind his back, and had his left trapped under his leg. In other words, he was effectively immobilising both Clint's arms.

Not that long ago, that knowledge would have been enough to send Clint into a panic. His arms were his livelihood. If anything happened to them, he had nothing left. Now, however, he took several calming breaths so that he wouldn't hyperventilate before he spoke.

"Ok. I probably deserved that for kicking you. I give."

The pressure immediately disappeared as Coulson released Clint's arms. Clint rolled over onto his back and sat up. He was still somewhat stunned, and even scared, by the fact that he trusted Coulson not to purposefully hurt him.

It was a very foreign feeling, and not something that Clint had ever experienced before in his life.

Phil sighed, shaking his head at the archer as he handed him his water bottle.

"That's yet another lesson to be learnt Barton. Don't let what your opponent says affect your focus. Not even for a second. Often that second could mean the difference between life and death when you are fighting in close combat."

Clint dropped his gaze and fiddled with the cap on the bottle.

"I know. I just wasn't expecting you to say that out loud. I know that you knew, Fury told me. But it was still unexpected. I thought that Fury wanted to keep it a secret."

Phil nodded as he sat down cross legged facing Clint on the mat.

"He does. That is the reason we shouldn't talk about it in places that aren't safe. This gym isn't monitored so it's safe, but not many places on base are. However, I wanted to tell you that I know about it now. I was not happy when I found out that you knew about it before I did, and had been ordered to keep it a secret from me."

Clint shrugged as he kept fiddling with the cap.

"One thing I don't do is rat out people."

Almost under his breath he quietly added "not anymore. I learnt my lesson."

Phil frowned.

"What do you mean, not anymore?"

Barton immediately clammed up.

"Never mind. You ready to go again?"

In less time than it took Phil to blink, Barton's expression was closed off and guarded, in full on defence mode.

Phil sighed to himself.

"Let's do this."

Barton got up and took his place on the matt without saying anything else, but refused to make direct eye contact with Phil for the remainder of their session.

As they went on, and Barton also employed every trick he knew to try and take Phil down. Though his moves were still very controlled, they were far from calm. Phil realised he must have hit yet another sore point to do with the archer's past, and internally sighed.

Why couldn't things with Barton be easy just for once?

* * *

 **End of chapter 8**

* * *

 **A word of warning, NEVER antagonise Fury. It could be harmful to your health and potentially your life!**

 **Reviews would be great. I know a lot of people are reading this, but I'm hardly getting any feedback. An average of one to two reviews per chapter is very disappointing after the huge amount of work that I put into writing this story.**


	9. But I'm forced to let go

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **Thankyou for all the reviews people! Without them, this chapter would definitely _not_ be coming out tonight as I'm currently holidaying at a friends place and would happily watch 60s Spy shows for the whole weekend and forget that fanfiction exists. But, as so many of you want more of this story, here it is. **

**Ren o'neil, Qweb, NerdGirl1210, NCISJunkie14, Guest and Freeranger, thankyou for your reviews! I will get around to replying to each of you who were signed in personally later. In the meantime, feel free to let me know what you think of this chapter!**

 **Thanks goes to jaguarspot for the beta (and helping me to make this chapter more believable and flow better) and Freeranger for general help in writing this story!**

 **There is one more chapter to go after this, and then we are done! I will post it in the next few days.**

 **Also, I will reveal the name of the song that the chapter titles are from then as well.**

 ***WARNING* Some of the content of this chapter may be triggery for some people. In order to avoid spoilers, I've put a description of the content in the endnotes. If you are worried about being triggered, please read those first.**

* * *

We're never so vulnerable than when we trust someone - but paradoxically, if we cannot trust, neither can we find love or joy. _Walter Anderson_

* * *

 **Chapter 9: But I'm forced to let go**

 _20_ _th_ _April, 1999._

"This will be your last training mission. If all is successful, and I have no doubt that it will be; the next one you take will be for real."

Barton traced the SHIELD logo printed on the outside of the file with a callused finger, but didn't open it. Rather, he looked at Coulson and frowned.

"Last training mission? I thought that recruits spent longer in training than I have. I can't be almost ready to take real missions! It hasn't even been close to a year, which is the average length of time recruits spend at the Academy before they go into the field. Even then, they often don't take a real mission for at least six months after that, longer if they are going to be solo operatives. How can I be ready?"

Phil nodded.

"What you have said is correct. However, the majority of our recruits don't have the experience and skills that are needed to successfully complete a job when they are recruited. They need to be trained to handle a variety of situations they have never encountered before. You already possess most of the experience and skills that other recruits often take months to develop. That is why you have only taken seven months to reach this stage, when most take at least a year."

Clint blinked in surprise.

"I've really been here for seven months? Man, I have lost track of time."

Phil smiled wryly.

"It's been almost five months since you came back from the Academy."

Clint rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.

"It doesn't feel like it's been that long."

"Well, it has. You can look it up if you would like."

Clint sighed as he dropped his hand to rest on the file sitting on his lap.

"I believe you. I just have a hard time accepting that I've been here for that long."

Phil nodded in understanding.

"Well, you have been. Anyway, we are giving you a simulated hit for your last practice mission. What that means is we assign you a target, and give you a time limit to complete the job. You will have to do recon on your target, learn their movements and patterns, and decide how and when you are going to take them out. The only difference to a real mission is that you will be using paintball arrows in place of real ones. I don't want our agent to be actually killed."

Clint opened the folder in his lap as his handler continued talking.

"So, for the duration of this mission your target is Alexandra Reed. She is an undercover operative, and sometimes political assassin, of a country that we are not friendly with. She has been sent here to gather Intel and secrets on a prominent American business man, George Lieberman, whom SHIELD wants to protect due to his political ties with other nations. As far as we know she doesn't plan to kill him right now, but we can't risk that happening. She has managed to establish herself as his personal assistant, and it's only a matter of time before she knows all his secrets. You have to ensure that you take care of her before she has a chance to act on her information. Her cover identity is Daisy Williams, a foreign exchange student studying business and accounting at New York University. However, she is currently taking a vacation from studying to work as Lieberman's assistant."

"So I'm going to New York? You are going to let me loose in a major city just like that? When I haven't even finished training?"

"Yes, we are. You're ready for it. Besides, I will be coming with you. You're not going alone."

Clint read the mission brief and pursed his lips. Phil waited until he put the file down, a small frown creasing his forehead, before he spoke.

"Are there any problems with this Barton? If there is something that you disagree with, now is the time to speak up. You can talk to me if you need to, Clint. I've already told you that I will always listen."

In spite of being given the archer's permission to call him by his first name a few weeks ago, Phil didn't use it very often. Using it right now just seemed like the right thing to do.

"It's fine. Before you ask, I don't have a problem with killing women either."

Phil nodded.

"Okay. I told you in the beginning that you had the right to refuse a mission if you don't feel like it is justified. All the information that we possess on Reed and her intentions is in that file. She is dangerous and ruthless, and won't hesitate to kill if it means she will achieve her objective. Collateral damage doesn't matter to her."

"I figured that much out from reading this file. For a practice mission, the details are very thorough."

"We try to make these things as real as possible."

"So you've said before."

Phil sighed.

"Go and pack Barton. You will have a ten-day window to retire the target. Though naturally SHIELD would prefer it be done ASAP, they have given us a generous time limit to ensure that this is done right."

Clint just shrugged.

"Where will we be staying while we are there?"

"In a SHIELD safe house located in the city itself. The Agent who is acting the part of your target comes from one of our European bases. There is little chance of her recognising either of us, but we are taking no chances. This has to be as authentic as possible. Without actually assigning you a real hit, this is as close as we can get to giving you one."

"When do we leave?"

"We are scheduled to leave in three hours. I want you to hurry with your packing however, because you are flying us to the Manhattan SHIELD office. I want to give you plenty of time to familiarise yourself with the route that we will be taking, and to go through the pre-flight checks."

Clint's head snapped up and his eyes widened.

"I'm flying us there? Really?"

"Yes." Phil smiled at the excitement that was now clear on the young archer's face. "You are. Now that you are a qualified pilot, I see no reason to employ someone to fly us places when you can quite easily do that yourself. Manhattan isn't that far away; it'll be a nice test flight."

* * *

 _30_ _th_ _April, 1999, ten days later._

"Overwatch, I have a visual. Target is alone with minimal witnesses around. Waiting on your signal."

"You are cleared to fire Hawkeye. Take the shot."

The words hadn't even properly left his handlers mouth, when a car pulled up next to Alexandra Reed. Clint paused in drawing his paintball arrow back, and frowned.

"Uh, Overwatch; target is no longer alone. A car just pulled up next to her. I think it's her boss's car."

"Is she getting into it?"

Clint frowned as he watched the scene that was unfolding below him.

"No. She is opening the back door but...oh hell."

Phil's worry spiked.

"Barton, talk to me! What is wrong? Have you been made? Have you taken the shot?"

Clint sighed softly as he lowered the bow and slowly released the tension on the arrow. He swiftly put the paintball arrow back in his quiver and unstrung the bow, packing it carefully away in his bow case. He didn't need it out anymore. There was no way he was going to shoot Reed today.

"It's her boss's kids. She is helping her boss's kids out of the car."

Clint bowed his head briefly and closed his eyes. He would rather be killed than harm kids in anyway. He had never killed people in front of them either.

Clint had done a lot of evil things in his life, but hurting kids was nowhere on that list.

While working as a mercenary, every single job he'd turned down had involved kids. Every last one of them. Clint could truthfully say he'd never killed a child, or killed someone in front of them.

And he didn't intend to start doing it for SHIELD now.

Not harming children was the only thing about his past that Clint was remotely proud off.

There was a heavy silence over the comms for a few moments. Phil then spoke in a carefully neutral voice that made Clint's heart rate go up.

He didn't know what his handler was really thinking when he used that tone of voice, and that worried him.

"Is Lieberman with them?"

Clint looked back down at the scene. His heart grew even heavier as the car drove away, and Reed walked with the kids over towards the park.

"No. She is alone. The car has driven off and left them with her."

There was silence for another long moment. Clint just stood there on the roof, half hidden behind an old chimney pot, as he watched the kids running around laughing in the park over the other side of the street. One of the children, a little blonde haired boy who couldn't have been much older than five, ran up to Reed and begged her to do something. Clint didn't know what it was as he couldn't read their lips from his position, but after a moment the boy took Reed's hand and led her over to the swing sets.

Clint watched with a hollow ache in his chest as Reed started pushing the little boy on one of them. Clint could clearly hear the boy's excited squeals of laughter from where he was standing. The sound made his stomach feel tight.

"Barton, are you still there?"

Clint swallowed around the lump that had developed in his throat from watching the children playing. When he did manage to speak, his voice was very raspy.

"I can't do it Overwatch. I don't do kids, and I also don't carry out hits in front of them. I'm sorry."

There was a moment's silence, before his handler spoke in a carefully controlled tone.

"What exactly are you sorry for, Barton?"

Clint swallowed again.

"For what I am about to do. Thank you for everything you have done for me, sir. But I can't do this."

Clint made a move to pull the comm out of his ear. Before he could carry through with the action, Phil's next words made him pause. Or rather, the desperation in his handler's next words made him pause.

"Clint. Whatever you are about to do, please don't. I am not angry with you Clint, and neither is SHIELD. Don't do whatever you are about to do Clint. Please."

Clint's hand stopped its upward assent, and hovered near his ear. It would be easy to simply pull the comm out and vanish. Too easy actually, and that was the reason that Clint couldn't bring himself to actually do it.

If he did pull the comm out and leave, then he would go back to being on the run. He would go back to being alone and having to watch his own back every second of every day to make sure that no one was about to kill him. There would be no Coulson there to do it for him if he ran.

After having a taste of what it was like not having to cover his own back, Clint wasn't sure he could go back to how he'd lived before.

Clint was so lost in his own thoughts that the sound of his handler's voice in his ear actually succeeded in making him jump.

"Clint, please trust me. Just come back to the safe house so that we can talk about this. Please."

He'd failed the mission. Today was the last day of the ten-day deadline that SHIELD had given him. In the past, failure had always brought pain and hardships upon him. There was really no reason to expect this time to be any different. Except that, not so long ago, Coulson had made him a promise. He'd promised that, so long as he was alive, he would always be there for Clint. That Clint could come to him about anything at any time, and he would always listen.

Clint had never had a promise made to him that hadn't been broken at some point. Even though Coulson hadn't broken his word yet, there was always time for him to do it.

"Okay."

Clint wasn't fully aware of what he was saying until after the words had left his mouth. He found, to his surprise, that he didn't regret saying them.

Coulson's relief was palpable, even through the comm.

"Thank you. See you back here soon."

Clint slowly gathered up his things. When that was done, he started the long trek back to the safe house.

* * *

"So what exactly happened out there Clint? You weren't very clear on the details."

Clint sat on the couch and fiddled with the zipper on his trouser pocket. He adamantly refused to look Phil in the eye, and instead focussed his gaze on a dirty mark on the wall over the other side of the room.

"The target was looking after her boss's kids. I don't do children; I have never done children. Practically every job I turned down while I was a hit man involved children in some way. I've never killed them, and I've also never killed someone in front of them."

Phil frowned.

"But you've killed parents."

Clint dropped his gaze and went back to fiddling nervously with the zipper.

"I know. And those memories haunt me more than any others. But I never did it in front of the kids, and I never killed both parents. I don't orphan children. I've been there, and I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."

The look in Clint's eyes as he said those last words would forever be burned in Phil's memory.

Phil had to swallow before he could speak.

"So let me get this straight, you were going to take off because you couldn't take the shot I told you to take while there were children around?"

The archer's shoulders were so stiff that it would be a miracle if he didn't have muscle cramp later on.

"Yes."

"So, what there about the situation that made you want to run, Barton? Why didn't you just tell me that you couldn't shoot someone in front of kids?"

Clint fiddled with the zipper, the constant 'click-clack' sound helping to keep him focussed. When he spoke, his voice was low.

"I didn't want to get thrown out of SHIELD for disobeying a direct order to shoot someone."

As he said the words, Clint realised how flimsy his excuse sounded. Coulson apparently thought so as well, and said as much.

"That is a very flimsy excuse Clint. I've already told you that that you aren't going to be kicked out of SHIELD, and that you have every right to refuse to take the shot. But, when that happens, I need you to use your words. You can't take a shot, fine. I need you to tell me why you can't take the shot straight away so that I know what is happening. Don't leave me in the dark like that. I'm not a mind reader Clint. I need you to use your words properly, and tell me what is happening. Clear and effective communication is important between us, and will become even more important when we are out in the field for real."

Out in the field for real. Clint swallowed at that thought. He'd become so invested in the practice mission that he'd forgotten one day very soon he would be doing this for real.

Coulson was, of course, right. During a real mission, he wouldn't be able to run away or try and ignore things that he didn't like; he would have to face them head-on and deal with them. Just like he'd done when he was a hit-man. During that time, Clint had never failed to deliver on a job that he'd accepted. His very survival depended on never slipping up.

The shit he'd pulled since being with SHIELD would likely have gotten him killed if the missions had been real, Clint realised with a start. He didn't understand why he reacted so differently to things now. He'd never felt so confused and uncertain about what he had to do before.

Then again, he'd never really been given a chance to say 'no' to something before, and not have his choice come with major repercussions.

Maybe it was the fact that he had the power to say 'no' that made things with SHIELD and Coulson so different.

Still, Clint wanted to make absolutely sure that he wasn't in trouble for not taking the shot today.

"So, me refusing to shoot Reed today won't have any repercussions on my career with SHIELD?"

Coulson sighed.

"Did everything that I said just go straight over your head? Barton, Clint, I give you my word, as your handler and friend, that it won't. You can carry out the hit tomorrow, or when she is alone again. I am not going to force you to do something that you don't want to do. Besides," Phil's voice quieted down, "I agree with you. Hurting children in any way isn't right, and I am not going to make you do it. Especially when you have such strong feelings on the matter."

The look the archer gave him was still full of uncertainty.

"What about next time I refuse to take the shot because there are children around? This is just a practice mission after all. What happens when a real one is at stake? I refuse to kill children, kill someone in front of them, or orphan them. What about when my interests collide with SHIELD's? Because I can guarantee that they will, sooner or later."

Phil looked at Clint with an intense expression.

"SHIELD isn't in the habit of killing children, Clint, and are unlikely to ever start. However, we both knew that things can turn into a shit-storm in seconds, so I want to ask you one question. Would you kill someone in front of children in order to save their lives? What if there was a hostage situation, and you had to shoot someone, to save the kid's lives? Or what about a human-trafficking situation involving children? Would you be able to kill in from of them then?"

Clint went back to nervously playing with the zipper.

"Providing that person wasn't their parent, I might be able to shoot them in front of the kids if it means saving them. But I won't deliberately hurt children. Whether it's physical or psychological, I won't do it."

"I've already told you that you don't have to do it. I've also told you that SHIELD is not in the habit of ordering hits on children, and if I have anything to say about it they won't start. However, I will be making a note in your file about this. Missions can and do go-to-hell more regularly than I like, and life-or-death situations can crop up when you least expect them and aren't at all prepared. It is important to have a note in your file about this, as todays episodes has shown it could be a trigger. It is mandatory to make a note of any triggers that an agent has or anything that might be a trigger, so that we are never taken by surprise, no matter what may happen."

Clint licked his lips nervously.

"Do you have to put that in my file? I don't want that information to get out."

Phil frowned internally at the pained look on Barton's face.

"Personal files aren't made public, Clint. They are only available to those of a certain clearance level, and on a need-to-know basis only. That is especially true of special assets, of which you are one. There is too much risk of an agent being compromised if certain information ever gets out."

"But why don't you want people to know about this, Clint? Having morals is nothing to be ashamed of if those morals are good. And yours are. This is just a precaution."

Clint went very still for a second before he answered.

"It's a weakness. Showing weakness can get you killed."

Phil froze with his mouth hanging open as Barton hunched his shoulders defensively. For several moments Phil was completely lost for words. It felt like an eternity before he got over his shock enough to speak again.

"Refusing to kill children isn't a weakness, Clint. Far from it. Rather, it shows just how strong and determined you really are. It does not show weakness. What gave you that idea?"

Barton gave him a shuttered look before anger suddenly flashed across his face. Before Phil had time to blink, or even register what was happening, the young assassin had already stood up and was yanking off his shirt.

" _These_ gave me that idea. If I'd just killed that little girl and not hesitated, I would have gotten out clean, I certainly wouldn't have been caught by her father's guards! I wouldn't have been imprisoned and tortured for days, and I wouldn't have most of _these_!"

Phil had never actually seen Barton without a shirt on before, and all he could do was stare in horror. He'd been told about the scars that covered the young archer by medical, but he hadn't comprehended how bad it really was. He hadn't anticipated just how nasty the abuse that the young man had endured was.

Barton's torso was littered with scars that normally resulted from really bad burns. The deliberate way each one seemed to be placed, and the evenness of the marks, suggested that it had been done intentionally. The long, thin scar that graced Barton's neck and chest and was visible when he wore an open necked shirt extended down to just below his left rib cage, and looked to be from a knife. How it hadn't killed him, Phil didn't know. There was also a small but thickly knotted scar that sat high on the right side of Barton's chest. It looked like the wound that caused it had been very deep. Phil was left wondering, as he sat there in stunned shock, how it hadn't hit anything vital and killed the kid.

Phil felt nauseous as he looked at the other signs of abuse that covered Barton's upper body. There were numerous other scars; most of them small, that testified to the hard life that Barton had led. However, Phil's eyes kept being drawn back to the three main ones. In fact, Phil couldn't tear his gaze away from them.

The kid looked at Phil with an unreadable expression. Without saying a word, he turned around and presented Phil with a view of his back.

Phil let out a strangled sound as soon as he saw the archer's back. He couldn't help it.

The majority of the scars on Barton's back were so old that they had long since faded into thin pale lines that crisscrossed each other. They stood in stark contrast to the fresher ones located on Barton's chest, and had obviously happened a long time ago.

However, these scars had more of an impact on Phil than the ones on Barton's front did. These scars had unmistakably been made by being beaten repeatedly with a whip or cane, and made a long time ago.

Phil had to fight not to puke as he stared in horror at the physical signs of the abuse Barton had suffered as a child. There was no other explanation for those scars.

After an undetermined amount of time, Barton turned back around to wordlessly pick up his shirt and tug it on. Once it was in place, he remained standing and looked straight at Phil.

"It's bad, isn't it? Do you understand now what I meant?"

Phil swallowed. His tongue suddenly felt too heavy in his mouth, so it took him a while to answer.

"Yeh. Who _did_ that to you?"

Phil wanted names so that he could find those people and make them pay for what they'd done to Clint.

"Numerous people have done things to me my whole life. There is no one person."

Phil shook his head helplessly. He felt anger burning low in his gut at Clint's casual admittance that more than one person had had a hand in physically abusing him.

"Which ones were caused by refusing to kill kids?"

Clint walked over to the window and looked outside. When he answered, he didn't turn around.

"The burns and the long scar on my chest."

Phil swallowed. He'd had a nasty suspicion, as soon as he'd seen the extent of the burns, that they were the result of torture. To have his suspicions confirmed so casually by the archer was still unsettling however.

"And the rest of them?"

Barton shrugged, and continued staring out the window.

"Life did the rest of them."

"What about the ones on your back? Who did those?"

Unsurprisingly, Barton didn't answer that one. Instead his shoulders hunched up defensively around his ears and he kept standing at the window with his back to Phil. Even though he was wearing his shirt again, and thus the scars were hidden, Phil couldn't get the image of the scars out of his mind.

Scars that had obviously been put on a little boy a long time ago by parties unknown.

Phil, knowing the little bit he did about the archer's early life, decided against asking more questions about who had done it right now. He didn't want to push Clint into doing something that he wasn't comfortable with, especially not when the kid was slowly opening up to him of his own free will.

That didn't mean that Phil didn't want to kill all those unknown people who'd hurt Clint in this way. He did. But for now he kept his anger in check.

There would be time for anger later. When Phil hunted down all those monsters that had done this to Clint, and made them pay.

"I can assure you that no one at SHIELD will do anything like that to you Clint. Refusing to kill children isn't a big deal, as I've already said. It has to go into your file because it might be a trigger; this way we can be prepared for anything that might happen. Unfortunately, no matter how hard we try, things don't always go according to plan. We will never ask you to kill children; but we don't want to be blindsided if a mission we assign you happens to involve them in some way. But I need you to communicate with me immediately if that is the case, or if there is some other reason why you can't take the shot when you are out there. I need you to promise me that Clint. Can you do that?"

Barton turned and gave Phil a hard stare. Phil remained seated on the couch and kept his face open and honest as he waited him out. The kid was obviously looking for something very specific in Phil. After a few moments of intense scrutiny, the assassin looked away.

"I can't promise you that, Coulson, and I'm not going to make a promise that I might not be able to keep. Not to you. All I can promise is that I'll try my best."

Phil sighed.

"Are you absolutely sure that you can't promise me more than that?"

Barton nodded. His shoulders were still hunched defensively, but there was something that looked like awe and (was that _respect_?) in his gaze. Before Phil could contemplate further, Clint spoke. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes. I promise that I will try and always talk to you, and let you know what is happening. I can't promise more than that."

Phil nodded in acceptance.

"Okay."

It was actually a better outcome than Phil had hoped for. Barton's trust was fractured and bruised from all the beatings it had taken over the years. But it obviously wasn't completely broken. It would take time, but Phil just knew that he could teach Barton to trust again.

It was clear to Phil that the boy wanted to trust people, and let them in. But it was also clear that those he'd trusted in the past had always hurt him. Yet, in spite of all that had happened to him, he hadn't given up hope. Hope that if he persevered and didn't give up, things would eventually get better.

It was with that knowledge that Phil knew he had been right with his initial assessment of Clint Barton. The boy desperately wanted to do the right thing. Underneath the tough exterior he projected to protect himself, the archer possessed a heart of gold.

It might be tarnished and dull and invisible to outsiders, but it was unmistakably there.

"You know; people asked me, back in the beginning, what I'd seen in you that prompted me to offer you a job."

Clint glanced at Phil before looking away.

"And what did you see? Apart from a killer?"

Phil pursed his lips as he stared off into space.

"I wasn't sure then just _what_ I'd seen. I just felt that putting a bullet through your head wasn't the right thing to do. I felt that you deserved the chance to be more, and do more, than what you were doing. Or at least that you deserved the chance to at least make that choice for yourself."

There was heavy pause. Clint eventually broke the silence that had fallen on them.

"What do you see now?"

"I see a man who has been through hell and back again, but who hasn't been broken by the experience. A man who has a strict moral code and sticks to it, no matter what it might cost him. A man who cares about people he doesn't even know, just because they are weaker and more vulnerable than he is. I see all that, and even more, in you Clint."

In that moment, as Clint turned and looked at him properly, Phil could clearly see the grief of a little abused orphaned boy who had had to grow up fast in order to survive. He also saw the remarkable man that little boy had become. But, overshadowing it all, was the darkness and guilt that same man carried.

Guilt over past misdeeds that had been out of his control. Guilt over things he'd done to survive when all the odds were stacked against him. Darkness that had come in as a result of the need to strive on, even when everything seemed to have failed; when it seemed certain that going on would lead only to more suffering and an early death.

Phil also saw the personal morals that Clint had stuck to, even during his darkest days. Morals that would have gotten a lesser person killed.

Yet, somehow Clint had defied all the odds and survived abuse that would have made most people give up a long time ago.

Phil Coulson believed in heroes. He believed in ordinary, everyday heroes. He might be a fan of Captain America, but he'd always thought that superheroes only existed as stories. Even though Steve Rodgers had been a real man, had he really been a superhero? What was the person behind the mask really like? Was he a superhero in his own right? Or was he just a man who was a hero?

Phil Coulson didn't know the answer to that question.

As Clint looked at him with more vulnerability than Phil had ever seen him show at any time, Phil knew one thing.

If superheroes did exist, Clint definitely had the makings of one.

He was already a hero in Phil's books, even though he seemed to see himself as a villain.

He wasn't a villain. Phil could clearly see that.

Hopefully, one day, Barton would be able to see that too.

* * *

 **End of chapter 9**

* * *

 ***WARNING*** **Past Child Abuse is discussed when talking about Clint's scars. There is also allusions to past torture during his time as a mercenary. Descriptions of scars are graphic, and it is obvious what caused them, but no on-screen abuse/torture takes place. It is all in the past.**


	10. I can feel your sorrow

**Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. If I did, than Clintasha would totally be canon. And they would be in every movie and have their own tv series.**

 **A/** **N**

 **Thankyou everyone for all the lovely reviews you have left me! I'm so glad that people have really enjoyed the last few chapters of Clint and Phil bonding. Those two are so precious together!**

 **Reviews are also precious to me! Thank you, NerdGirl1210, NCISJunkie14, Ren O'neil, Freeranger and Guest, for your lovely reviews. I treasure every one of them!**

 **Freeranger wrote the epilogue at the end of this chapter, that masterpiece is credited to her. jaguarspot also is credited with the beta-reading. Any mistakes that remain are mine.**

 **And so we come to the end...or not. Enjoy!**

* * *

Without Trust, you have nothing. _Tamara Ecclestone_

* * *

 **Chapter 10: I can feel your sorrow**

 _A few weeks later._

Phil sighed as he stepped out onto the moonlight-bathed roof of the SHIELD safe house in Gothenburg.

"I had a feeling that I might find you up here."

Clint didn't turn around from where he was sitting right on the edge of the roof.

"Why did you have a feeling?"

Phil sighed again as he walked forward and sat down next to his agent, who shuffled over to make room for him. This safe house wasn't that small inside, but the roof space was _tiny_. Even though they were only three stories off the ground, Phil was very careful not to look down.

"I had a feeling that this might be difficult for you, being your first official mission and all. _Agent_ Barton."

Clint turned to face Phil as he shook his head.

"I'm still getting my head around that bit. I still don't feel like I deserve to be an agent of SHIELD."

Phil sighed softly.

"You've well and truly earned the title of agent Clint. What you've overcome in the last six months is astounding. You deserve to be here more than anyone else that I know."

"Want to talk about what's bothering you tonight?"

Clint shrugged.

"Nothing to talk about. I can't sleep."

"Can't, or won't?"

Clint's shoulders hunched slightly. It was an unconscious reflex, and as soon as Clint realised what he'd done he forcibly relaxed them. It was only then that he answered Phil.

"A bit of both. I did go to sleep earlier on, but the nightmares woke me up less than an hour later. Right now, going back to sleep is a lost cause. It's just not worth going to bed, especially as I have trouble sleeping when I'm on a job. I always have. It's better not to tempt fate."

Phil just sighed. There was no pity in his voice when he spoke, just acceptance.

"What were the dreams about tonight that you gave up on sleep completely?"

"My contract assassin days. Even though you keep telling me things are different now, knowing that I'm going to kill someone tomorrow..." Clint's voice was barely above a whisper as he trailed off "it doesn't feel that different."

"It is different Clint. You've read the file. Henrik Lundberg is not a good man. You don't have to feel guilty about getting rid of him, he has it coming. He is half-way up SHIELD's kill list for a very good reason."

Clint's shoulders drooped.

"I know he's on their shit list because he is a rapist and a murderer. It's just hard. Even though I know things are different now, going through the same motions brings back bad memories."

Phil nodded in acceptance and silent understanding.

"Do you want to talk about the memories? They certainly aren't doing any good being bottled up inside you. Sharing them with someone might even help you learn to deal with them."

Even though Barton had admitted what his nightmares were about some time ago, he had yet to share any specific details with Phil. He kept it all bottled up inside him, much to Phil's chagrin. Phil had spent more nights then he cared to count up on the roof of the SHIELD base with Clint over the last couple of months. Not talking, but simply being a comforting presence to remind the young assassin that he wasn't alone anymore, as he struggled to deal with the guilt and self-loathing that threatened to consume him.

Phil wished there was an easy way to show Clint that what he was doing now was different to what he'd done before. If he could just show him that, then the young assassin might start to forgive himself for his past. Phil thought hard as he sat there. There had to be something that he could do.

As Phil continued to think about it, a nugget of an idea began forming in his brain. As the idea grew, Phi internally smiled.

That just might work.

* * *

Clint glanced at Coulson quickly, before he looked away. He didn't want to see the sympathy and understanding he knew would be reflected in his handler's eyes.

Clint didn't _want_ sympathy. He really didn't.

He had no one but himself to blame for the nightmares. After all the evil things he'd done in his life, he deserved them.

At least that was what he constantly told himself.

So, Clint looked away and shrugged without answering Coulson's question.

Coulson groaned.

"Clint, talk to me. Come on. We've discussed all of this before. Do I really have to repeat myself _again_?"

Clint's shoulders slumped at hearing the resigned and even hurt tone of his handler's voice.

"No. Hearing and believing are two different things however. Still working on that last one."

His handler closed his eyes briefly and sighed as he rubbed his forehead.

"Well. I can't wait for the day when you trust me enough to start believing what I tell you is true, Clint. Because it is."

They sat there in silence for a while. Clint kept stealing glances at his handler, as he internally debated whether to tell Coulson about the memory that had been haunting him tonight.

His handler was right about one thing. Keeping everything bottled up was only making it worse.

It wasn't that Clint didn't trust Phil. He did. But Clint had had to hide his feelings and deal with them by himself for so long, that the thought of opening up to anyone now terrified him. To confide in someone in the past, had always led to him eventually being hurt by them.

Phil was different though. Clint knew that his handler wouldn't deliberately hurt him in any way. It wasn't in his nature.

Rather, he would try and make everything better in typical Phil-style.

It was that thought that finally decided the matter for Clint.

"Tim and Lauren Kimble."

Phil blinked at him. He'd obviously been miles away.

"Huh?"

Clint almost smiled at seeing the usually calm and unflappable Agent Coulson looking slightly flustered. But this was no matter to smile about.

"That's who I dreamt about tonight. They were an elderly couple, living out their retirement in Lithuania. I took them out with two arrows, one through each of their hearts while they were walking out in their back garden. Their adult daughter witnessed it. Her screams of terror..."

Clint couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, he buried his face in his hands as if trying to bury the memory.

When no more information was forthcoming, Coulson gently laid his hand on Clint's shoulder.

"Thank you for sharing this with me, Clint. I know how difficult it is for you to talk about any aspects of your past. But thank you. For finally trusting me, and letting me in."

Clint gave a sound that could be interpreted as an attempt at a laugh. Providing you had a very good imagination.

"I think that I have trusted you for some time Phil. I was just too scared to admit it out loud before now."

Phil gently squeezed Clint's shoulder.

"That's understandable. You didn't have a good reason to trust anyone. You had to be given a good reason to before you could trust me. I get it Clint."

Coulson's calm and non-judgemental acceptance of Clint's past sins, and his current fears, was a hell of a lot more than Clint had ever dared hope for. Clint couldn't fathom what he'd done to deserve having someone as genuine, caring and understanding as Coulson was in his life.

But he wasn't about to give it up if he could help it.

Coulson had been the first person to crack the steel-enforced exterior that Clint had been forced to build to protect himself. It had been a long and rough road, but the stoic Agent hadn't once given up on Clint. In spite of all signs pointing to the contrary, Coulson had firmly believed there was good left in Clint. It hadn't mattered what other people, including Clint, saw.

He'd been the first person to believe that there was good in Clint in a long time.

Clint just hoped that he could live up to the Agent's faith in him, and not let him down.

* * *

 _Less than twelve hours later, SHIELD's Safe house, Gothenburg._

Phil knocked on the door to Clint's room, and waited for a verbal acknowledgement from the archer, before stepping inside. Clint had already finished packing the few belongings he'd brought with him on this mission, and was sitting on his bed staring out the window.

Phil softly cleared his throat to get Clint's attention. He waited until the archer turned to face him before he spoke.

"I've got something for you."

Phil didn't say anything else, just held out a small brown paper wrapped parcel.

"I didn't quite know when to give this to you. But I figured that now is as good a time as any. Sorry about the shoddy wrapping job. The language barrier did not help. Believe me; it was better than shiny fluorescent pink paper."

Clint stared at Phil.

"But I haven't gotten you anything."

Phil groaned.

"And you don't have to. I didn't have to get you this, Clint. I wanted to. You are not obliged to do anything special for me in return. Letting me in and allowing me to be a part of your life is more than enough reward. Now please take this parcel. My arm is getting sore holding it out to you."

Clint grinned.

"Whiner."

"If you'd just take the damn parcel I wouldn't have to whine." Phil's voice softened as he made eye contact. "There are no strings attached to this Clint. I promise."

Clint found that he believed him. It was that surprising thought that caused Clint to give in. Rising from the bed in one fluid motion, he slowly reached out, and took the small parcel from Phil's hand. Sitting back down on the bed with his left leg tucked under him, Clint fingered the paper hesitantly.

"Can I open it now?"

Phil almost rolled his eyes, but the hesitation and uncertainty that was clearly evident in Clint's whole posture stopped him. Instead, he sat down on the only chair in the room as he nodded.

"Of course you can. I didn't get it for decoration."

Clint carefully peeled back the paper. Phil would have just torn it, but it was clear that Clint wasn't used to receiving gifts, and was unsure what to do. That being the case, Phil waited patiently. Finally, the last layer of paper was peeled back, and his patience was rewarded with a soft gasp.

Phil smiled.

"Do you like it?"

Clint didn't answer right away. Instead, he carefully picked up the small black leather bound notebook that he'd unwrapped. He'd initially thought that it was unused. But when he opened it, a single line of writing in black ink on the front page caught his attention.

 _People saved by Clint Barton AKA Hawkeye._

The rest of the creamy white pages were blank. Clint spent some time just staring at the words that were written in Coulson's neat script. Finally, he looked up at his handler, who was watching him with a small smiled on his face.

"What is this for?"

Phil looked at Clint with an intense expression.

"As you beat yourself up so much over the people that you have killed," he ignored Clint's involuntary wince, "and so that you will be able to see the positive difference that you are making, I thought that you should start a list. After a mission, I want you to write down all the names of those that your actions have saved on that mission. Whether they are civilians, allies or other SHIELD agents, it doesn't matter. Can you do that for me Clint?"

Clint had to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.

"You bought this for me, just so that I could see that things aren't like they used to be?"

Phil nodded gently.

"Yes. What you are doing for SHIELD is different Clint. I don't want you to doubt yourself or your actions. I know that you have a ledger that is full of red, and that it is haunting you. It is my hope that, by starting a new physical one with all the names of those you save in it, one day you will start to believe what I've been telling you from the beginning. It is my hope that one day you might be able to forgive yourself for all the bad things that you've done."

Clint had to swallow again as he ran a calloused finger over the smooth black leather cover of the notebook. Finally, he looked at Coulson.

"Do you really think that it could help?"

Phil shrugged.

"I don't know. I just hope that it will. I certainly don't think that it can hurt. Do you?"

Clint actually had to think about that.

"No, it probably can't. I can write down the name of anyone that I save? It doesn't matter who they are? What if I don't know their name?"

"Then write down general information. For example, 'old lady in Singapore', 'school children in Massachusetts' those sorts of things."

"What about times like today, where there is no tangible person who I saved by shooting Lundberg? It's a bit late for his victims."

"Then write something like 'people who would have been victims of Henrik Lundberg' or something along those lines. It's up to you what you write Clint. I just want you to be able to see evidence of those that you save."

Clint gently closed the small book, and hugged it to his chest as he bowed his head. Eventually he looked up at Phil with tears in his eyes and an expression that was no longer full of despair, but determination and hope. As soon as he saw that expression, Phil knew that he'd done the right thing.

Whether a small black leather bound notebook was going to help with the guilt that Clint carried, Phil didn't know.

Only time would reveal the answer.

But for now, as he looked at the hope shining in Clint's eyes as he hugged the small book to his chest, Phil knew he'd done the right thing.

* * *

 **Epilogue:**

"Why did you request this meeting, S1?" the deep voiced man asked. His tone held no warmth.

"I have information on Hawkeye, Boss." The other person, S1, answered evenly.

"I see. What have you found out?" There was obvious interest in the Boss's voice, now.

There was a rustle of fabric in the dark room, followed by the unmistakable crinkling of paper. S1 handed the Boss a folded piece of paper.

"I found that this morning. I thought you would like to know ASAP."

The Boss unfolded the paper and shone a small penlight on it. For a minute he read in silence before he looked across the small table at S1. The light only served to hide his face in heavy shadows beneath a deep hood.

"I believe this will be very useful. You did well to find it." His voice was satisfied.

When S1 spoke, the smirk was audible in his voice.

"Thank you, Boss. What happens now?"

The Boss's teeth glinted in the penlight's faint light as he smiled evilly. "Now," he drew the words out, "we enact Phase 3 in SHIELD."

The cold air in the dark room seemed to grow colder at his words.

* * *

 _To be continued in..._

* * *

 **Game of Truth and Lies**

When Barton goes missing while on a mission, and a member of the WSC is kidnapped, all signs point to the archer being the perpetrator. However, there is fowl play afoot and no one can be trusted, especially as there is a mole within SHIELD. Will the truth be found out before it is too late? *CSC Universe*

* * *

 **And** **so we finish with a chilling reminder that dark days are coming. Clint, Phil and co. are up against a formidable enemy, an enemy who would kill them all without a second thought if he stood to gain something from their deaths.**

 **I do like high stakes! It keeps things from becoming boring.**

 **The song that I have used as the chapter titles is 'Frozen' by Within Temptation. The song perfectly describes my Clint and his sometimes rocky relationship with Phil. I highly recommend everyone goes and give it a listen to.**

 **Thankyou to all who reviewed, followed or favourited this story or me as an author. Even though this story has finished, I would still love to know your thoughts, so feel free to leave a review on any of my stories or send me a PM. I would love to hear from you!**

 **I hope that everyone will join me for our next instalment whenever it comes out! I have the above story kind-of planned out, but have no idea when it will be written, sorry. In the meantime, I have a few shorter stories taking place in the same universe that I will be posting over the next few months, including a tie-in with the Thor movie from Clint's POV and a Christmas one-shot that takes place early in the timeline of Fractured Trust.**

 **I hope that you will all join me for them!**

 **In the meantime, Australianranger012 out.**


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